The Golden and the Black
by Amarie Vanyarin
Summary: Glorfindel is not the only one to be rebodied and sent back to Middle Earth. Eru has decided that Maeglin deserves a second chance - one which the prince of Gondolin is not sure he is happy with, especially when he finds that he has been rebodied as an elfmaid under the same roof as the balrog slayer.
1. Chapter 1: Mandos

The Halls of Mandos lie to the west of the Blessed Realm. Large as the white structure may seem from without, it gives no clue as to the vast, almost infinite space that lies within.

Mandos stood in a radiant pool of light at the centre of his halls, looking at the innumerable rooms and chambers spiralling around and above him into the heavens in many layers.

The air was heavy with the voices of multitudes—cries and laments and sobs and sighs, blending together into a heartrending chorus, sorrowful yet strangely melodious, for the voices of the Eldar are fair.

Across Belegaer, the Great Sea, a white city encircled by high mountains had fallen, and the souls of slain Eldar were flooding into Aman. He watched them float in through the white dome above, each with their own light, some dimmer, some brighter. His maiar guided each soul into its own appointed space, some higher and nearer the brilliance of the white dome above, some lower.

Mandos waited for one. It came finally – a dark shape, almost black. . . but not quite. He caught it in his hand as it sank heavily towards the ground where he stood. He could hear its wail of torment and hate and despair as its shadowy form swirled across his palm.

But it was not all shadow. At its heart, still a dim golden glow, flickering and fading. Compassion sat with judgement on the brow of Mandos.

A portal in the ground yawned opened before him, to a vast dark space where many chambers lay. He descended below, gliding down upon the voices of the wretched who sojourned there. He breathed upon his palm, and sent the dark soul floating into a chamber where it took form. The form of a broken body fallen from a great height, its edges blurred and shadowy. Where the heart should be, the faint light. He breathed again, over the glowing heart.

_"Let the release of pain begin." _

And the agonized sobs and weeping of a child came from the form, its black edges eddying and shifting. Upon the walls of the chamber various images of its life appeared in rapid succession. A dark forest. A dark, angry face. A woman falling with a spear in her shoulder. A golden-haired beauty. A torture chamber.

Small wisps of shadow floated forth from the dark soul like smoke, and were sucked down into a black abyss below Mandos' feet, the pool of all the pain and grief of the Eldar. "_The pain and guilt is deep,"_ he said to the grey-robed maia who tended the souls at this level. _"Let it purge for a millennium." _

He then ascended towards the dome of his Halls, the rooms brighter and whiter the higher he rose. At the top levels, the souls of the innocent glowed. Children and infants, cruelly slain. The love of Eru rested powerfully upon these. Their small forms were white and gold, but at their hearts, the crimson stain of their trauma, the manner in which they had died.

He waited for a white, shimmering shape that was entering the dome, receiving it in his palm as it floated in. It lay there, swirling white and gold, flecked with crimson. He cradled it in his hand and breathed the love of Eru upon it. He wafted it into a chamber near the bright dome, and a form took shape. A form which, though shining bright, was broken as the dark one had been. Streaks of crimson ran over the form, like terrible lacerations.

On the walls of the bright soul's chamber appeared images of white towers falling, of a mountain path along a ravine, and a vast black-winged demon with a fiery whip.

"_Heal_," Mandos commanded the shining soul. To the white robed maia on duty he said, "_His spirit is strong. He will not be long here with us._"

On the walls of the chamber, images appear of a mountain pass. A backdrop of high peaks topped with snow.

A vast eagle bears a broken body in once-bright elven armour in its claws. He lifts it up from the chasm, beating his mighty wings. From the claws, still-bright golden hair hangs down, scorched and dark with blood.

A fair elven lady, her hair a lighter gold, receives the bloodied and burned body into her arms, weeping the terrible, rending tears of a mother bereft. She rocks back and forth on her knees in grief, clutching the slain knight to herself. The group of elves encircling the two weep inconsolably.

A mortal man tenderly loosens the lady's arms and coaxes the body away from her with gentle whispers in her ear.

The refugees of Gondolin leave behind a cairn of stone, hurriedly raised. On it, the stems of golden celandine, plucked from the wayside and laid with loving hands, tremble in the mountain breeze.


	2. Chapter 2: The Undying Lands

West of the woods of Oromë, lie vast meadows of green grass starred with flowers that never fade. Beyond them, in the distance, rise the blue mountains where the Halls of Mandos lie.

A white horse galloped swiftly across the sunlit meadow under a clear azure sky. On its back was a rider clothed in white tunic and leggings, golden hair streaming bright in the wind, bow and a quiver of arrows on his back. A series of archery targets were lined up to his left. "Faster, Asfaloth!" the rider commanded, nocking his arrow in his bow.

Oromë the Hunter and Manwë watched as the rider hit each target dead centre.

"He has been diligent and trained well," Oromë was saying. "It is good that it is time. He is ready." He added with the deep rumbling sound like thunder that was a vala's laugh, "He has in fact been a little bored. He has been leaping from the backs of eagles onto his horse, and he teases Huan mercilessly. Send him before he kills himself or gets killed by my hound, and we have to wait a century to get him back from Namo." A low growl came from Huan, who lay by his master's side like a small hill, but his huge tail was thumping the ground in amusement.

The elf in white, riding full tilt in the opposite direction, got gracefully to his feet on Asfaloth's back and was shooting at the targets from that standing position, his golden hair whipping in the wind. His shots split the first arrows cleanly into two. He was of necessity using his other, weaker arm, however, and the second target was off centre by a fraction. He shook his golden head self-deprecatingly. He went back and did a third, flawless run, splitting all the second arrows straight down the lengths of their shafts.

"And in his boredom, he needlessly destroys good arrows," grumbled Oromë.

"Call him hence," said the Lord of the Valar.

Oromë blew on his horn, and the elf rode up to the Valar, dismounted, and bowed low and reverentially on his knee before them. "Rise, child," said Manwë. He rose and looked up at the Valar, for they towered over him. "You have wondered, have you not, why you have been set apart from thine kin?"

"Yes, lord." The elf would be counted tall among his kind, and very fair. The hair which gave him his name and fell in waves to his waist was a rich and radiant gold which seemed to capture the light of the sun. His bright eyes were at that moment the same azure blue as the sky, but they could darken to violet with anger or emotion, and turn blue-grey he was deep in thought. In contrast to his hair, his long lashes and his brows were dark. His form, slender as his kind were wont to be, held a coiled power, and there was strength in his shoulders. His face was open and true as a child's, and it was free from fear as he stood before the Valar.

"Glorfindel of Gondolin you once were, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. In days of old there was a motto writ on thine banner. Tell us of it."

"It was _'To serve and to protect_,' lord," replied the elf.

"Indeed the time has come once again for you to serve and protect. For the dark rises again in the lands beyond the Sundering Seas. And one of the line of Turgon, to whom you did swear allegiance, will be in need of your help."

His eyes flashed with white fire. "I shall be glad to go, Lord," he said with no hesitation.

Manwë smiled on him and said softly, "In this land of bliss where there is no fading, you have felt still a restlessness in your spirit, have you not? Of things undone, of a work unfinished." The Vala leaned over and touched him on the breast. "And _here_, the merest whisper of a void. Though you seek naught for yourself, reborn servant of the light, we bless thee in this – an answer to your deepest question, and the missing piece for your soul."

His blue eyes were awed and slightly puzzled, but the elf bowed deeply.

Manwë raised a hand and called over a silver-haired maia with brilliant grey eyes. "Olorin shall be your companion till the appointed time to sail, and he shall explain many things to you of the world to which you shall return."

There was a twinkle in the maia's grey eyes that Glorfindel liked. The maia and elf smiled at each other and a friendship was born.

"A millennium has passed since your rebirth," Manwë was saying, "And much of it you have spent in the woods of Oromë or the gardens of Estë or in my palaces. We release you to return to the homes of those dear to you."

Idril, Earendil and Voronwë. His face lit up with joy.

"Olorin shall go with you as your tutor, and you may spend some time in fellowship with those you love and in saying your farewells."

"I thank you, Lord." The elf bowed deeply again. He looked thoughtful and his eyes were a greyer blue as he straightened. "My lords—why _me_?"

Manwë looked at him gravely and said, "Eru Iluvatar, all wise, all knowing, hath chosen thee. His ways are mysterious and beyond our highest thoughts and we but perform his will. But we have watched thee, child, and have found thee worthy—"

"—if a little mischievous. Do not give me that innocent face, thou little prankster," added Oromë fondly. The thunder of the Valar's chuckle was heard again.

Emboldened, the elf smiled and added, "My lords, it is not true that I seek naught for myself. May I have one request?"

"Ask it," said Oromë with a smile, for the blue eyes were upon the Lord of the Hunt.

There was a brighter sparkle in the blue eyes. "May Asfaloth go with me?"


	3. Chapter 3: An autumn tale

Glorfindel had few belongings after a thousand four hundred years in Valinor. So much of his time had been spent in the forests of the Lord of the Hunt, training for war in the mountains with Lord Tulkas the Strong, or being shuttled from one part of the undying lands to another by the Valar, that his room in Idril's house at Tol Eressëa did not have a lived-in feel. He packed everything in ten minutes. One bag for all his clothes and personal items, another larger one for his weapons.

He felt Idril's presence before he actually turned and saw her at the bedchamber door. Her beauty lit up the doorway. A beauty that had once stirred a darkened heart to forbidden desire. A beauty that had incited that dark heart to treachery and brought the hosts of Angband upon a white city hidden in the mountains.

She took out the sword she was holding behind her back. "I'd like you to have this, _pityo_."

"_Emmë_—that's _your_ sword! I gave it to you."

They had not used these childhood terms of endearment since he came of age, back in the mortal lands, when she was the daughter of the king and he was the Lord of the Golden Flower. But somehow, since he had been rebodied, they had fallen back into the habit of his early years.

"There is no use for it here," she said, unsheathing the sword and admiring the blade. "There will be more use for it where you are going." She slid it back into its scabbard and presented it to him.

He took it but said, "Itarillë, you _do_ realize it's a _lady's_ sword?"

"You may find someone to give it to," she said. "Someone who needs it. Someone. . ." she arranged the collar of his tunic and smoothed out the creases in its front, in that proprietary way mothers seem to have. ". . .special."

"You never do give up hoping," he laughed, packing away the sword with his other weapons.

"Well, I have a feeling. . ." she seated herself in a chair by the window. Outside, the sea was dark and vast in the night, and the resonant sound of the waves rolling in reminded them of the distance that would soon yawn between them again. A brilliant white star burned in the heavens, as her other son sailed the night skies.

"Itarillë—could you tell me that story again?" A long time ago, in another bedchamber, across the ocean, he had sat in her lap and listened to the sound of the waves as she told him that tale.

She raised her eyebrows and looked up at the tall warrior, leaning her cheek on a slender hand. They both knew he could remember every word she had ever said.

He could not explain why he was asking. "I just want to _hear_ you say it again. Before I leave."

"Well then, come and sit here, _yonyo_."

He sat on the floor by her, leaning his back against the leg of the chair, and his cheek against her knee. She combed her slender fingers through the soft waves of his golden mane, darker and richer than hers, and began in a singsong storytelling voice:

"It was an autumn evening in Nevrast, just after the feast of starlight. I was running, running, running home. I had spent the day dancing along the beach and picking shells, as I often did, and the time had flown away on swift wings. 'Oh Elbereth!' thought I to myself: 'How cross _atto_ will be that I am late for dinner again!'

"The stars were bright in the sky, and already a light autumn frost was on the ground. I heard a sound some way before I reached the palace steps—a sound, like an angry kitten mewing," she pulled his earlobe teasingly. "And there—there at the top of the stairs, was a white bundle of cloth, and it was _moving_.

"I caught it before it could fall down the stairs and saw, peeking out at me from swathes of white linen, little summer-blue eyes with dark lashes. You were tiny, my _pityo_, no more than a day or two old, but already such a little charmer. I was yours from the moment you smiled at me.

"Your white linen cloth was of the finest quality, woven with a pattern of leaves in the border, such as we used to have in Valinor in the palaces of the high king. And pinned in the cloth was a golden brooch, shaped like a flower with eight fair petals, a sunburst like the yellow flowers that blossom in the meadows of Lorien."

Both cloth and brooch had been lost in the fall of Gondolin.

"And I thought, surely this babe is of high-elven and noble birth. And surely his parents must have loved him so, to leave him at the doors of High Prince Turgon's palace. They must have wished him to be well-cared for. . .and safe. . ." Her voice trailed off.

Glorfindel turned to look up at her, and saw in her eyes the dark haunted look she always had when she remembered. Remembered the day he had been dragged down into the depths of a chasm wrapped in a balrog's flaming whip.

"_Emmë_—Itarillë—I'm _alive_. I'm here. Everything is all right." And kneeling before the chair, he wrapped his arms tightly round her in a bear hug.

She sobbed and clung to him, trying not to recall the horror of empty blue eyes and a scorched body covered in blood. Trying not to think that the next day she would have to let him go again.


	4. Chapter 4: Rebodied

"_But my Lord, he is not ready_," said Mandos.

Before him, the chamber of a soul: a _fëa_ in which both darkness and brightness swirled. Six millennia had passed. There had been many slow stages of healing and restoration. Agonies of contrition and wracking grief for wrongs. The soul had risen several levels from the blackness of the abyss which yawned below the feet of Mandos.

Certainly much better than one black and fiery _fëa_ still mired in the depths of Mandos' Halls, who after six and a half millennia remained fiercely unrepentant of an oath that had been sworn.

The great moment of breakthrough for the dark soul from Gondolin had come when Mandos had brought two other souls who still abided within his halls into this chamber for a visit.

"_Ion-nin_," one soul still with its own darkness had murmured. "_Forgive me, my son_."

And the other, a brighter soul with a stain of scarlet had whispered, "_We love each other. And we love you._" And added: "_Our deaths are no longer upon you_."

As he sent back the souls of the father and mother to their own chambers, Mandos had been pleased to witness a great release of pain and darkness coming forth from the weeping form of the prince of Gondolin. With these early wounds dealt with, the rise upward should be hastened, he had believed.

That had been four millennia ago. It had unlocked and released much childhood pain after which the healing of hatred for the father had come easily.

But after that, the progress had stalled. And for the last two millennia, as other souls rose past it, reached the white brilliance of restoration, and were released into the Blessed Realm, the half-dark, half-bright soul remained far from the white dome above.

"_We have never before released one who has not completed the cycles of healing and restoration_," Mandos said to his Lord. "_Give us more time."_

A wind stirred the robes of Mandos, and a great, deep voice spoke like thunder and the roar of ocean depths.

And Mandos sighed and bowed before the will of Eru Ilúvatar, which sometimes did not make sense even to a Vala.

He took the troubled half-dark soul from the chamber and lay it upon his palm.

He looked upon it thoughtfully, and, with a hint of a smile, breathed on it once again.

* * *

><p>The shock of consciousness as lightning crackled through the air and illuminated the darkness. Rain, freezing cold on bare skin. Rumble of thunder, patter of rain. All looking hazy, as if seen through a veil of mist. . .<p>

Breath. Gasping air in big gulps. Cold air pulled into hurting lungs.

A pale hand raised to push back hair blacker than the surrounding night.

Palms and knees scraping on wet gravel below.

And another sound, surreal, as though heard through water. The howl of something wild and dark, bringing a chill of fear.

Scrambling up and plunging forward, every move done with agonizing slowness. Stumbling through the rain and forest, brushing against low branches that snagged dark hair, bare feet racing over grass, twigs, gravel. Instinctively picking up a fallen branch as a weapon, turning to see the black, bounding form with yellow eyes bounding closer.

Seeing it leap. A swing of the branch, and a cracking sound on impact. The beast dropped with a yelp, only half-stunned.

_Climb a tree. Quickly._

Pulling up to the higher branches, slippery black bark rough against palms and soles, seeing below another set of yellow eyes and bounding black fur leaping at the trunk, fangs bared, jaws snapping.

A whistling sound and a thud. The beast fell with a whine, a long shaft in its side even as it leaped in for the kill.

The stunned warg struck by the branch was getting to its feet. Lithe figures edged with starlight dropped from above or leaped in from the right. An elven blade flashed and plunged into the beast's throat.

Clinging shivering to the branches of the tree with numbed, trembling hands, the one just awakened felt it sway in the wind and was washed over by weakness. Vision swam.

Voices. Sindarin voices.

"An _elleth_…"

"A _child_…"

"Not quite a child…"

_Who are they talking about?_

"Are you hurt…?"

"I'll climb up and bring her down…"

"Varda, not a thread on her…"

The face of a female elf in a green hood and cloak smiling assurance. Helping hands supporting and carrying down from the tree. Solid ground. Hands wrapping a cloak around her. The rain had settled to a light drizzle.

"Child, where are you from?" A male elf's voice.

She swayed and fell to her knees. Arms went around her to lift her. "No, let her rest." She was sat down upon the ground and leaned against a tree. A fair face in a hood drew level with hers and keen grey eyes the colour of slate scrutinized her face. Saw a pale oval face framed with wet, black hair, and long, slanting eyes, black pools from whose inky depths ancient sorrow gazed back. . .

…And was gone. The impression passed, and the elf saw only a very young maiden. Perhaps no more than forty years old.

"What is your name, child?"

_Child?_

Her lips parted, but no sound came forth. She closed her eyes and frowned, and then tried again. Still no sound. A flask was lifted to her lips, and a warm, smooth liquid coursed down her throat and spread its warmth from her belly right to her fingertips and her toes.

She opened her eyes and saw a circle of five elven faces around her, all hooded in grey and green.

"I don't know," she whispered in Sindarin.

"Where did you come from?"

She shook her head dumbly. An _elleth_ archer reached out and gently began to examine her head and her limbs.

"No injury to the head. No broken bones apparent. Let her rest."

"Right. We wait for the rest to return and we move on."

Another _elleth_ with green eyes crumbled a small piece of lembas and fed it to the nameless girl. Four other elves ran swiftly to them and rejoined the group.

"We killed six in the pack. The rest have escaped."

"Where there are wargs, there may be orcs nearby. Let's hurry back to Imladris."

After a last swig of miruvor was poured down the girl's throat, strong arms lifted and carried her. She lay limply in an _ellon's_ arms, her head fallen against his shoulder. Her eyes were blank in sleep.

* * *

><p>Black eyes became conscious as she was laid on the soft bed in the healing halls and gentle, efficient hands unwrapped her from the wet cloak. Everything still veiled in that white haze, dreamlike. Thought was slow and confused.<p>

"My name is Elrond," said a grave, dark-haired elf by the bed, dressed in maroon robes, a silver circlet on his head. "And you are in Imladris, a place of safety and rest. What is your name, child?"

This "child" business was getting annoying. She looked at him, but all she did was shake her head slowly.

Elrond checked his patient and found nothing of concern. Grazes on her head and palms and knees, but no serious bumps, bruises or contusions. The slender hands were soft and unmarked apart from the grazes. As though she had not done a day of work in her life.

She leaned back on pillows and looked at the backs of white, pale, delicate hands with slender, shapely fingers and delicate pink oval fingernails. She turned them over to gaze at smooth, soft palms.

_Memories of other hands, other fingers, larger, calloused and hardened. Stronger hands._

She flexed her hands tentatively, feeling them. Her eyes travelled up white, slender arms. Looked down in bemused confusion at her chest. She looked up and saw the dark-haired elflord looking at her quizzically. He looked away and continued his examination with cool, clinical hands. Wide, obsidian eyes fringed with long, black lashes watched him warily with a piercing gaze. She did not smile.

He was feeling down her legs for injuries. The soles of her feet were also soft and smooth as a baby's apart from the superficial grazes. "You have had quite an ordeal, but you are lucky not to have been hurt."

His assistant, an _elleth_ in grey, finished applying a cool, fragrant ointment to the grazes, and began to pull a long, white, loose gown over the girl's head, helping her to pull it down past her knees, then covered her with a soft, downy blanket up to her chin.

If only she could think straight. Her brain felt as though it was made of wool. "I feel fine," the girl said softly and slowly in stilted Sindarin, a low, tremulous voice that seemed to be trying itself out. Her first words since she had arrived fifteen minutes ago. She cleared her throat softly. "I regret that I am a trouble to you." Her words were strangely accented. She formed each word carefully.

"What can you tell me about yourself, young maid?" Elrond said, seating himself on a chair.

Her eyes clouded. The dark head shook.

"What can you recall of today?"

A frown. The same shake of the head. He tried switching to Quenya. "Were you travelling alone? Perhaps someone attacked you?"

"I cannot recall. Only that I awakened in the darkness and the rain. I found myself lying upon the ground. Then I heard the howl of the _ráca_. . . and I ran." The halting sentences came in elegant, archaic Quenya. Of a Noldorin king's court of ancient days.

A knock at the door. "Come in," called Elrond, and the head of a tall elf appeared. His shining golden hair spilled over his shoulder.

"Lord Elrond, pardon for the interruption. A word, please, once you are done?"

Elrond caught a startled look on the girl's face. It was the look of one who has just seen a poisonous snake. Or an orc. Not the usual reaction of a maiden to the golden-haired elflord. Her eyes flicked away from the balrog slayer to some point outside the window, where the sky was beginning to pale.

Elrond rose to his feet. "Rest well, child. You have had a shock. We will speak again once you have had some sleep."

He turned and saw that the seneschal of Imladris had stepped into the room, dressed in his armour and a cloak, his sword hanging by his side. His famed hair fell bright down his back to his waist. The blue-grey of his brilliant eyes had darkened with some perplexity as he gazed at the black-haired girl.

The maiden still half-averted her face from him, but she could feel power emanating from the bright-haired elflord that prickled her skin like lightning in the air.

As Elrond left the room with Glorfindel, he spoke in a low voice. "You appear to know our guest."

The golden-haired Seneschal of Imladris said nothing for a while as they walked down the hall. "I know that face."

"Well, she looked at you rather strangely when you entered. It is possible she recognizes you."

"How old is she? She cannot be more than forty years old. A mere babe. She is certainly no one I've seen in the last few thousand years."

"Then perhaps she resembles someone?"

"Yes. Aredhel Ar-Feiniel. Írissë, daughter of High King Nolofinwë, white lady of the Noldor. For a moment I thought I beheld her once again." _Save for the eyes_, he thought, but did not speak it.

"She is a strange child. Very strange. She certainly does not behave like a youngling."

Glorfindel shook off the shadows of the past and changed briskly to the business at hand. "The patrol that just returned saw the wargs that Gildor encountered, and a company of orcs. About thirty. I am going out with a party to hunt them down. . ."

* * *

><p>As the white hazy cloud numbing his, or rather her, mind slowly cleared, the thoughts of the prince and regent of Gondolin remained in chaos. Under the blanket she felt herself with tentative, probing hands. The slender limbs, the small bones. Breasts. Womanhood. Maeglin's head was spinning, and a rising tide of anger was building in her.<p>

What in Arda had the Valar done to her? Was she yet again some kind of pawn or plaything in a cruel destiny she could not control? She lay seething with outrage and humiliation. Imagined laughter from the Halls of Mandos mocking her. An old bitterness flooded her, and a string of colourful expletives in both Quenya and Sindarin ran through her head.

The other joke of the Valar. That Glorfindel_, _Lord of the Golden Flower had to be here. Out of all the places in the vastness of Arda, they had chosen to send her where _he_ was.

It was certain that this was retribution for her previous life. And that the Valar hated her.

A healer entered and gave Maeglin something to drink despite her rather rude and angry protests. And then she slept again.

* * *

><p>The sky was grey and overcast. Riding out in the dim light of early morning with his company of eight, Glorfindel was more silent than he was wont to be.<p>

The highs and lows of service in the mortal lands over two ages had left some mark on him. He had experienced the bitter victory of the Last Alliance and had faced down and defeated the Witch King of Angmar. He and Elrond Halfelven had established a safe haven for the Eldar in Imladris. As seneschal of Imladris, he kept the region surrounding it safe for both elves and other travellers by destroying any orcs and wargs that roamed into it. But it had not been safe enough. The darkness grows, he thought. Their forces were becoming larger and bolder and their incursions more frequent. The lady of Imladris, Celebrían, had taken a morgûl wound a number of years back while travelling home. She had never recovered, despite all Elrond's efforts to heal her. She had begun to fade, and had sailed for Aman leaving her grieving husband Elrond and her three children. Glorfindel's failure to protect her still gnawed at him.

He was witnessing the decline of his race in Middle Earth. The Eldar were now so few in number, and with each year, their numbers shrank with those who went to the Havens. And each year, as he guarded Imladris, he wondered if this was all there was for him to do. If there was _more_. There was the stirring of a restlessness in his spirit, a vague, growing sense of emptiness. A wondering if he had done enough. If he had _been enough_.

_The missing piece of your soul_, Manwë had said. He still did not know what that meant.

So over the long years, his fair, open face had become just a little sterner. He trained the guard rigorously and with an iron discipline, and smiled less than he used to during these sessions. But they loved him anyway. Most of them had played with him from the time they were elflings, and knew that they were as his own children to him.

This morning, as he rode out, his guards left him to his thoughts, which centred on the face he had seen in the healing halls, and the memories it had resurrected. Memories of a beloved city with tall white towers surrounded by seven gates, protected by the sheer cliffs of the Echoriad, the Encircling Mountains. Gondolin the fair, last secret stronghold of the Noldorin exiles in Beleriand. Faces loved and lost flashed across Glorfindel's mind. Of all the Gondolindrim, only he remained this side of the Sundering Seas.

Or so he had thought.

For in one brief glimpse of the black eyes of the maiden, he thought he had seen the eyes of Maeglin Lómion, Lord of the House of the Mole, prince and regent of Gondolin. Its traitor and destroyer. Even the expression he had seen on that face when it glanced at him was familiar. . .

But he would have to puzzle this out later. It was time for battle.

He and his company of elven warriors and Rangers of the North descended swiftly upon the orcs and wargs. The skirmish was brief but brutal. Some of the foul creatures fled in fear before the white light shining from the golden-haired warrior, which seared their eyes with the purity of its radiance. His sword cleaved through the orc ranks as the white horse Asfaloth ran through them. Several of the orcs entered the dense woods where Asfaloth could not follow. Leaping from Asfaloth's back he gave chase, his sword singing as it decapitated one orc, thrust through another, and slashed through the torso of another like a hot knife through butter.

They were blessed. This had been one of the easier ones. Glorfindel had managed to slay the orcish commander first, and with their leader gone their ranks had disintegrated. Many had tried to flee and were picked off relatively easily.

The seneschal of Imladris returned to his men and whistled for Asfaloth, the white battle-light still flickering in his blue eyes and shining in his face. He bandaged a flesh wound on his left upper arm—might need a few stitches, nothing serious—and checked on his company. Five of the elite forces of Imladris: three _ellyn_, two _ellith_. Three young Dunedain, ranging in age from sixteen to twenty. No casualties, minor wounds. Between the nine of them, they did the tally. All thirty-two of the company of orcs had been killed, thirteen by Glorfindel alone. The golden-haired lord's armour was spattered with orc blood, but he himself looked as fresh as the morning.

The three Rangers looked warily at the elven warrior, in awe of the fluid grace that had carved a path of destruction with such swiftness and ease through the orcish ranks. Shining like a star, his beautiful face stern and terrible, he had looked to them like one of the Valar.

The Rangers were young ones, new to Imladris and had been undergoing training by the Imladris captains in his absence. He, just returned from a long mission to Mirkwood, had not had time to break the ice with them. Yet. He patted Asfaloth's flank and smiled at the _edain_, and his expression transformed into boyish friendliness. It was as though the sun had come out. They smiled back.

"Well done, lads," he said. "Let's head home for breakfast."

* * *

><p>Maeglin woke late in the afternoon. Looked down at her new body again, gave a loud groan and buried her face miserably in her pillow, and muttered a few heartfelt curses into it. Sitting her up in bed, the silver-haired healer who had helped Elrond tend to her last night ignored her angry scowl, placed a small plate of food and drink before her, then departed to report to the Lord of Imladris that his patient was ready for discharge.<p>

She had not realized it but she was hungry. She ate gratefully, savouring each mouthful. The sweet, acid slice of an unknown fruit. The morsel of soft, warm, salty bread with a bit of butter. Two pieces of crisp salad leaf. The sweet warming trickle of wine down her throat. Each taste, texture and sensation brought an acute sense of pleasure.

She was _alive_.

After she had eaten, her outlook on life felt a little more positive. She walked to the window in her bare feet, and saw mountains encircling a green valley, rather like another valley in another life. . . but this valley was much smaller, and had a gentler beauty than the awe-inspiring glory of the Echoriad, where the majestic high peaks had been white with snow all year round. Here, she saw gently rolling hills at the foot of the mountains, fields of wheat and barley, and green meadows starred with summer flowers. She saw a countryside dotted with cottages and a village by a curve in the river. Pines and firs grew on the high slopes and several waterfalls plunged down from the heights and flowed into the river that carved its way through the valley. The complex of buildings that she was in was only a few storeys high, and there were only two small towers that she could see. Still, it was a fair and peaceful place. From the window she looked down on fair terraces and gardens around the grand house of Imladris and observed this new world. Two young lords in the gardens, mirrors of each other, with a young mortal boy. Far in the distance, on a green lawn, she saw archery targets set up, and warriors riding and shooting at them. She saw a golden head among them and guessed who it was. . .

A new world. A new start.

Make the best of it, then.

Just then, the silver-haired healer entered to say, "Maiden, Lord Elrond is glad that you are so recovered from your ordeal. He asks that you join them for dinner in the great hall."

Maeglin put on what she hoped was a pleasantly civil face. "I shall be pleased to," she replied in careful Sindarin. She had always disliked speaking it. Sensing that whenever she did, people heard _his_ voice in hers. The voice of the Dark Elf, the _moriquend_ë. The Sindarin learned by Maeglin Eolion deep in the shadows of Nan Elmoth, learned at the knee of the dark, surly, powerfully-built smith. An unrefined, rustic accent, which to Maeglin had always been an unwanted reminder of despised origins, of shame.

She was shown to a neighbouring chamber with a bath and revelled in the luxury of hot water and suds. Stepping out and towelling dry after a blissful eternity, she saw that a green dress the colour of a forest in sunlight had been laid out for her, trimmed with just a touch of gold embroidery at the hem and at the fitted bodice. A plain white shift with long flared sleeves went under it. She was glad it was of simple design. She had always hated ostentation. She picked up grey and white feminine undergarments folded away under the heap of skirts and bodices and examined them curiously.

A long mirror had been pulled out for her and stood at the foot of her bed. She crossed over it in curiosity and stood before it.

Her long, damp, black hair fell in a mass to her thighs. She gathered it and pulled it behind her shoulders so she could _see_ herself. See what she was now. What they had done to her.

The face that stared back was eerily familiar. Her mother's face. The perfect oval, the fine nose and delicate jaw, the rosy lips. But the eyes that looked back were her own. The long, black eyes with the sharp glance. She scrutinized that face warily and critically, seeking to fault it. She disliked the almond shape of her eyes.

Her eyes travelled down her body. Almost reaching womanly fullness. Slender waist, hips rounding and losing prepubescent boyishness, slender long legs. Not a child any longer. Almost a woman. She turned in the mirror to see herself all around. The grazes on her body were healing well.

She remembered another face and body, with luminescent golden hair and brilliant grey sea eyes, the curve of the long throat, the womanly fullness of a soft white bosom. The tiny waist spreading to full hips. Another life, where the princess of Gondolin had so allured, obsessed, and filled a young prince's days and nights with burning desire that his life had been one of endless torment. Knowing that it could never be, yet unable to cease loving, longing, lusting.

It was a strange moment when the black-haired maiden became aware that something was gone. Vanished like the morning sun dispels the night.

The entire world seemed to shift and tilt the moment she realized there was no response in her heart and body at the thought of Idril Celebrindal, bright princess of Gondolin. No desire. No mad heat in her loins. No aching abyss of need. She replayed the memory of smiles that had driven her mad, hair she had hungered to caress, a body she had longed to conquer and possess.

Nothing.

It was all gone. A strange emptiness filled her.

And out of that emptiness, another alien sensation was awakening in her heart and began to wash over her until at last it flooded over her like a tidal wave. She gasped with sudden amazement and elation. Lighthearted, lightheaded. _Relieved_.

She was _free_.

Free at last. Free of the madness of two centuries.

_Free_. . .

She felt light, so light that she thought she could float away like a bubble.

It was so overwhelming that she stood rooted before the mirror barely seeing herself anymore. Revelling in this new lightness of being.

So overwhelming that when the knock came at the door she forgot she was standing there without a thread upon her and said absently: "Yes?"

The door opened, and Glorfindel stood there. He was dressed for dinner in a dark blue robe edged with a little golden embroidery, his golden hair flowing over one shoulder down to his waist.

Her instinct was not to turn away, but turn towards the visitor.

He froze and stared. A rosy flush began to spread across his beautiful neck and face to the tips of his ears as he stood there with his mouth slightly open.

She turned to him with a radiant smile on her face, still overwhelmed with the joy of her freedom. Then, seeing who it was, the smile faded and she raised one delicate eyebrow and stood there with her hands on her hips, for all the world as though the annoying Lord of the House of the Golden Flower had just interrupted her in her study or forge at Gondolin to bother her with some tiresome business.

And then the realization hit her. "Oh," she said softly. She folded one arm protectively across her chest, and the other hand went down to cover the triangle betwixt her thighs.

"My apologies," Glorfindel said in a barely audible voice. And quickly and quietly closed the door behind him.

Looking at the closed door, she remembered the elflord's blushing face and a bubble of amusement gathered in her belly.

It was priceless. That look on the annoying golden elflord's face was one she would treasure forever.

After years of common baths with fellow warriors at Gondolin or on the march to and from battle, it did not even occur to her that she should be embarrassed. Certainly she remembered quite clearly what _his_ looked like.

The bubble of mirth ripened within her. She sat upon the bed and wondered at the chuckle that escaped from her lips. A strange sound. She liked it. It happened again. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw that her face was split in a smile.

When had she last smiled?

Had she ever smiled like that before. . . even when she was an elfling in the cool shadows of Nan Elmoth?

She put her hand to her face to feel unfamiliar muscles at work.

Ah. And _this_ was what it felt like to reduce a mighty elven warrior of great renown to blushes and helplessness.

It was a curious sense of power, and it felt. . . good.

She was so amused she could not contain it.

She tossed her head back and laughter spilled out merrily.

* * *

><p>Stupid, stupid, <em>stupid<em>.

His face still burning, Glorfindel marched down the hallway and out onto a terrace facing the garden. He leaned against a pillar, pulling fresh cool air into his lungs.

She had not been trying to seduce him. Her direct, man-like gaze as he stepped in and her genuine confusion when she realized her nakedness assured him of that.

What upset the seneschal was his response. The heat that had flowed through him as he gazed on her white flesh and into her obsidian eyes. The shock of sudden need and longing that had violently wrenched through him at her smile, a radiant, secret smile, as though she had been enjoying a private joke.

The way he had gawked at her like a green youngling.

The tall, beautiful elflord was used to female adulation. The _ellith_ were drawn to his bright laughter and easy charm, the joyous energy that emanated from him, the luminous blue eyes that often dancing with mischief, and the glorious mane of bright gold hair that gave him his name.

Even before he reached his majority, there had almost always been an e_lleth_ or two hanging onto his arms at the many feasts at court. The attention ranged from coy and longing glances to the brazen flirtation of hands sliding up his arms to feel his muscles, and fingers running through the golden locks at his waist, and sometimes even bodies pressing up boldly against his. In the days of Gondolin, almost not a week had gone by without at least one besotted female throwing herself at him, and he had quickly learned to deal with it. It had not been too hard; the key was to ensure no one got hurt. He flirted playfully with all, called everyone "my dove" and "my flower", and got out of every tricky situation with a mix of lighthearted banter, kisses to hands and cheeks that meant nothing, and the utmost knightly gallantry. Such was the outpouring of female adoration, that Ecthelion and Idril had teased him that he was losing his touch if a month went by without one of these incidents.

On a few occasions, there had even been cunning ladies who managed somehow to make their way into his private chamber and present themselves to him in various stages of undress. Somehow, he had managed to gently maneuver each of them out of his bed and chamber without damaging the ego or vanity of any.

In other words, in his two lifetimes he had seen quite a number of very fair _ellith_ in the altogether, and they had all left him cold. Not one had awakened him. It was not unusual among the Eldar to pass many long millennia unstirred by romantic passion. A fair number never wed, so he was not exceptional.

In the first age, his life had centred on the running of the House of the Golden Flower: caring for the needs of the fifty thousand people under him, training for war, and keeping his men battle ready. His warm affection had been for his people, his devotion and loyalty to his king and his princess, and his brotherly love for the warriors of Gondolin he had fought alongside with.

The only woman in his life who had really mattered had been Idril, his foster mother. He had no tolerance for those who hinted that he might have an eye on the hand of the golden princess, or on the throne of Gondolin. Any who knew him well knew that she was mother, sister and friend to him and nothing more.

After so many millennia without once being stirred romantic love, why should he feel it now? As the skies darkened and lanterns began to glow in the trees, he paced the gardens below the terrace like a restless lion, wracked with confusion and shame at the heat and unfamiliar emotions that were surging through him for the first time in his long life.

And he could not say what upset him more.

That he had felt desire even as he knew her youthful body to be clearly _underaged_. Breasts still ripening. Hips slightly curved. A _baby_. He felt a wave of revulsion at himself.

Or that the heat had flooded him even as he looked into familiar obsidian eyes and at that arched, haughty eyebrow he seemed to have seen a hundred times before. He had almost expected to hear a familiar voice snap out, "Yes, Lord Laurëfindel. What may I do for you?" and to see the lovely face to crease into a familiar scowl.

He had looked into the face of the traitor of Gondolin, and desired it.

He was so upset that later at the dining table, he needed to have five cups of strong wine before dinner was even served. Trying not to think of familiar black eyes and young, white flesh. Trying not to think about the mystery of how a traitor's eyes could look back at him from the face of a very young maiden.

And he had not even got down to the business that had taken him to the healing halls. Erestor had asked him to escort the newcomer to the dining hall and inform her of arrangements for her to move out of the healing halls and to another room.

At the dining table, as Erestor chided him testily for his failure in carrying out such a simple task, Glorfindel remained uncharacteristically silent and poured another goblet of wine.


	5. Chapter 5: First Night at Imladris

It had taken her longer than she thought to put on the unfamiliar garments.

Why must women's undergarments be so complicated? Any moron could figure out the logic of it, but actually donning it had been something else. A lot of hooks and eyes, and adjustments and fidgeting and re-adjusting. Then a layer of clothing over, and a lot of lacing and more re-adjustments.

And another layer. She tugged and tied bows and fussed until the figure in the mirror looked presentably neat and tidy. She wasn't sure of the fashion. Should that skirt and the sleeves fall _this_ way, or _that_?

As she had often done previously, she pulled part of her top hair back and fastened it at the back of her head without even a braid, using just one of the several clips provided. She was late enough already. Her glossy hair, well-brushed, fell in a silken black mantle down her back.

With a last anxious look at herself at the mirror, she took a deep breath and left the room, searching for someone to show her the way to the dining hall. As she walked, she felt the unfamiliar swish of long, heavy skirts against her legs. So much heavier even than the long ceremonial robes of a Lord of Gondolin.

Glorfindel turned just a little bit redder in the lamplight as she stepped into the hall. He examined the goblet in his hand very closely.

She bowed to Lord Elrond, rethought it halfway and sank into a curtsey. "I ask your forgiveness for my lateness, lord." Glorfindel heard the Quenya of the court at Gondolin, and saw a few eyes look in her direction. Elrond seated her near him, between Elladan and Elrohir. From the voices around, she discerned with a little dismay that Sindarin was more commonly used here.

"How are you feeling, young lady?" asked Elrond in Quenya.

"Well. Thank you, Lord Elrond" she replied in her oddly-accented Sindarin. "Perhaps you may call me Lómiel, for want of a better name."

Further down the table, Glorfindel almost choked on a mouthful of his dinner.

"Lómiel. Daughter of twilight. And have you been able to recall anything more about yourself?" asked Lord Elrond.

She paused over a morsel of pheasant and said nothing.

"Parents?"

The long black lashes lowered with what she hoped looked like maidenly distress. "My parents are dead." Which was true enough.

There was a sympathetic and respectful silence from her dining companions.

"Do you know what brought you to the woods?"

"No. I recall nothing of what I did before awaking in the rain."

Looking into obsidian eyes, Elrond was piqued to find both honesty and secrecy in them. He could smell a lie from a mile off, and she was not lying. And yet something lurked and hid in the depths of those eyes. The contradiction bothered him, and her answers were far from satisfactory.

"You may stay here if you wish," Elrond said. "Hopefully you will recall more soon."

"Thank you for your kindness, Lord Elrond." She bowed her head. "I would be happy to be allowed stay here for a while. I hope not to impose on your hospitality for long."

"You are very young," said Elrond. "It would not be wise for you to wander into the wild alone. These are dark times, and there are not only wargs but orcs roaming the lands of Middle Earth. Perhaps if we can find some kin of yours." But she had nothing to say about that.

Elrohir helped her to a spoonful of stew and she looked a little surprised. "Thank you." She smiled at him with what she hoped was maidenly gratitude. It came across as a shy and tentative little smile.

Glorfindel's world tilted at that shy smile. Again. He felt his insides twist, felt for a moment he could not breathe.

What was _happening_ to him?

"Glorfindel, you have not been listening to a _word_ I said," said Erestor testily.

* * *

><p>After one passes the doors to the healing halls on the first level, there is a corridor that leads to the southern wing. There are a dozen bedchambers there, mostly reserved for guests, except for Glorfindel's room. He has always suspected that Erestor put him there, in splendid isolation, so as to be as far away as possible from the adviser's own bedroom in the north wing. He has had no complaints. There is a balcony and a view, and a wonderful bath that he always looks forward to at the end of a long day of training or riding. If his chamber is right next to the healing halls, that is convenient since he assists Elrond as a healer and it allows him to check on the progress of his patients easily. If he is right next to the guest rooms, that also suits him since he enjoys providing hospitality and it often falls to him to entertain visitors at Imladris. He even enjoyed the party of thirteen dwarves and a hobbit that had passed through a couple of years ago, most of whom had been fairly impressed once they learned that he had slain a balrog.<p>

That particular night, sleep eluded the elflord for a while. He tossed and turned for a couple of hours, and finally fell into a fitful sleep dreaming of piercing black eyes.

A bloodcurdling scream shocked him out of his sleep. A scream of such unimaginable torment that he leaped out of bed, quickly pulled on his leggings and ran out into the corridor with his sword drawn, anticipating an attack. It was just past midnight. His head throbbed slightly from the wine he had drunk earlier that evening. The agonized screams and moans-a woman's—were coming from the corridor to the left of his door.

_But we have no guests. Those rooms should be empty._

The note of despair and the depths of agony in the choking screams sent a chill down his spine. He threw open the door from whence they were emanating and ran in, sword at the ready and every nerve on alert.

He saw a writhing figure under the sheets of the bed. Alone.

Another shriek rended the air tailing off into a terrible moan.

It was _her, _he saw with sinking heart. He had forgotten about her. Or that Erestor had moved her into one of the guest rooms. Black eyes were open and staring beneath a curtain of black hair, the face contorted in torment, hands clawing and back arching.

He dropped the sword next to the bed, feeling such pity that nothing stirred in him except compassion. "Maiden, wake up," he shouted above the screams. He grasped her shoulders and shook her. "Wake up!" She thrashed wildly, and her head banged against the headboard, and he winced in sympathy as his own head throbbed. He pulled her body lower in the bed so the headboard wouldn't hurt her again. Yet she did not awaken. She swing her fist into the side of Glorfindel's face. Catching the flailing arms, he gathered her in a bear hug that pinned her arms at her side and restrained the thrashing. He called upon his healing power to calm her _fëa_.

And found himself pulled inside her mind.

Felt shackles on his hands, felt excruciating pain twisting through his guts. Smelt the dank foul, fetid smell of a black dungeon. Saw red glowing eyes in a hideous visage beneath a black crown near his own face, and heard the Black Tongue in a terrible deep voice like an earthquake:

_Where is it, slave – the secret city? I grow weary of your insolence._

And an elf's trembling, enraged, exhausted reply, barely audible: _Never. . . I spit on you. Foul fiend._ And another excruciating spasm of torment, and the screams.

Into that darkness Glorfindel began to sing with power. Of the light of Eru Ilúvatar, of peace, of hope, of victory over darkness. A brightness radiated from his arms and into the tortured being he held. The dark visage in the nightmare faded, the foul stench receded, and a white light grew in the darkness.

He was back in the room, and the girl lay still in his arms. Glorfindel laid her back onto her pillow and covered her with the blanket up to her neck. Her eyes still glazed, began to see. Her eyes began to scan the strange room in confusion, her eyes still haunted by terror.

She saw Glorfindel. And gasped in shock, and half sat up in bed abruptly, throwing herself back against the headboard. She looked at him with huge, dazed black eyes. The curtain of black hair, slightly damp with sweat, fell over half her face. She was still breathing heavily.

"What are _you_ doing here?" she managed in a shaking, ragged voice.

And Glorfindel, standing there with rumpled, unbraided hair, without his shirt and in his bare feet, said calmly and matter-of-factly, as though this was a normal everyday situation, "Maiden, I came because I heard screams. I saw that you were having a nightmare, so I woke you." He observed her dilated pupils and the clammy sweat on her brow, and her hyperventilation.

"You need something to calm you. I will prepare a sleeping draught." And he left before she could say anything. He went in briefly to his room to snatch up a tunic, and threw it on as he walked to the healing halls. He yawned as he prepared the sleeping draught. It was quickly done as the herbs were already mixed and powdered. When he returned, she had wrapped herself tightly in the blanket, and was sitting up in bed. She looked at him warily as he entered, as though afraid he might pounce on her. Her breathing had evened out somewhat, but she looked exhausted.

"Here," he said, holding out the cup to her. "It will calm you and help you to sleep without dreams."

She eyed it uncertainly and made no move to take it. "Thank you, lord," she said finally. "But I think I shall not be in need of it." Her husky, musical voice sent thrills down his spine.

"I am not going to _poison_ you, if that's what you think," he said, in an amused voice. He set it down on a table. "Drink it or not, it is up to you. I wish you a good night and dreams more pleasant than the last you had." And he gave a huge yawn, picked up his sword from the floor and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Maeglin looked at the cup and the closed door.

In this young maiden's body, she had suddenly felt so _vulnerable_ with the golden-haired, bare-bodied elflord towering over her bed, emanating that raw power that made him feel so dangerous. Unlike the previous evening, when his blushes had given her the upper hand, he had been calm and in control, and she had felt nervous and painfully aware of how small and weak this body was.

Glorfindel's reputation as a ladies' man into whose chambers women came and went was what had been foremost on her mind as he stood so close to her. Had he wanted to, she thought, he could have had his way with her. Just as her own father had with her mother at their first meeting. Or as the prince of Gondolin had so much wanted to do with Idril. Were not all men the same?

She was the weaker one now. And there would have been no one to hear her screams. She had been preparing herself, if he had laid a finger on her, to knee him so hard that he would have been unable to walk for a week.

Was she relieved or insulted that he had shown no interest? She was surprised that he had been so respectful. And she grudgingly admitted that he had been nice to her. She thought that it could almost make one like him.

After an hour of tossing and turning in bed, she reached out her hand for the draught, downed it in a gulp, and fell quickly into a deep sleep till morning.

In his own room, Glorfindel went to the balcony, sat on the railing, and looked out into the starlit sky. The rain clouds of the previous night had gone. He was deeply troubled by his thoughts, which were making him suspect that the black-haired maiden did not just resemble Maeglin Lómion of Gondolin, but WAS Maeglin of Gondolin.

Could Maeglin have been rebodied even as he had been, but not into Valinor? Into Middle Earth? Do such things happen?

And if so, to what purpose? He had been chosen and sent to serve Elrond with a clear directive. Why would the Valar send _Maeglin_ back, of all the souls in the Halls of Mandos, to Imladris, in secret? And why as an _elleth_?"

Could she be a threat? How could he be certain that this was an act of Ilúvatar, and not a scheme born of darkness to bring ruin on Imladris? Or on him?

Glorfindel sighed, and rubbed at the soreness on his face where she had struck him. He could not trust her. And yet, surely Mandos would not release a soul from his halls without the approval of Ilúvatar the all-wise, or who has not completed the cycle of cleansing and restoration.

The screams he had heard just now and the dream he had witnessed were not from a soul who has been cleansed and restored.

He had wondered often over the years. . . How _any_ of the Firstborn could _possibly_ have betrayed their people and their city as Maeglin had done.

But was it any more strange or terrible than that the Firstborn could murder their own kin for the sake of jewels?

At least Glorfindel would give Maeglin that. . . that in the end no account related that any of the Eldar were slain directly by him. Though he had sought to take the life of the mortal Tuor and the half-mortal Eärendil, Elrond's father.

If this was Maeglin, what would her reaction be, once she discovered that her patron was the half-elven descendant of the ones she had hated so deeply in her last life? Or that Estel was as well? He would have to be careful. And guard the descendants of Eärendil: Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir, and Estel. He would keep a close watch on her. And keep her here. He would rather have his enemy within his sights than wandering at large working unknown mischief.

Should he tell Elrond? No, he decided. Not yet. It was so far-fetched and unlikely a scenario that an elf-maid was a traitor reborn. There was no need to stir up suspicion and fear within the household over an unproven hunch. If she is here by the Valar's will, let her live out her new life in peace. Eru Ilúvatar is merciful and his ways inscrutable. Perhaps a dark and troubled soul was just being given a second chance.

If this was Maeglin, he wondered how much of her old life she would recall. He could recall everything, but he came back as himself, not an _elleth_. He chuckled. Thank _Eru _for that!

Still, he thought he might make a pretty _elleth, _and grinned. He might look like a younger sister of the Lady Galadriel.

One thing he had learned tonight. History recorded that Maeglin was captured by Morgoth. If that was what he had seen in the dream. . .

_Never!… I spit on you, foul fiend._

So Maeglin had resisted Morgoth. That speaks much better of him than the histories record, thought Glorfindel. But he had broken in the end. . . because Morgoth had seen into the desire of his dark heart and promised him a golden princess.

Glorfindel was troubled as he sat on the railing gazing out into the starry night. He had never been dragged in chains to Angband, and he was thankful for it.

Would he have been resolute, as Maedhros Fëanorion had been?

Would he have had a breaking point, as Maeglin had his?

He believed that he would have held strong. But he thought humbly that he could not say that with absolute certainty. . . and for the first time felt a glimmer of sympathy for the traitor who had cost him and almost an entire city their lives.

He yawned and made his way back into his room and his bed.

* * *

><p>Why, <em>why<em>, as he soon as he lay on his bed did he have to remember the scent of her black hair and its silken feel against his cheek and mouth as he struggled with her?

Praying to the Valar for mercy, he buried his face in his pillow.

He would have given much for the oblivion to be found in a cup of that sleeping draught. He should have taken it when she declined.


	6. Chapter 6: The Halls of Healing

"_Ow!_ Watch it, _peredhel_!" said Glorfindel wincing.

"You felt that? Hmmm. Sorry," said Elrond, continuing his needlework unperturbed. Glorfindel had come in with a nasty shoulder wound from an orc blade, and Elrond was stitching him up.

"_Ow_! _Felt_ that? Elrond, what happened to the anaesthestic?"

"Did not Lomiel give you any?"

"She applied something—_Ow_!"

"That smells like wound disinfectant rather than anaesthestic ointment," said Elrond giving it a sniff.

"Well, apply it now."

"It is too late for anaesthetic now. Might as well just finish it off."

"It is _never_ too late for anaesthetic!"

"You can take this. It is just like ant bites."

"Why do they always say that? What kind of ant I would like to know!"

"Come, come, be a hero."

"Elrond, I have just had fifteen stitches with _no painkiller_. I have had enough of being heroic for one day!"

"_Twelve_ stitches. I thought balrog slayers were tough."

"_Peredhel_, the balrog killed me in less time than _you_ are taking—_Ow_!"

Lord Elrond was not being a sadist. He had been patching up the elflord sitting in the chair before him for five thousand years and had seen the seneschal take injuries far much more horrendous with unflinching stoicism. This wound counted as the merest of scratches, and this moment as one of those where the balrog-slaying hero was just kicking up a fuss over nothing and choosing to indulge his inner child by acting like a big baby.

For much of the time, the Lord of the Imladris and his seneschal were fairly formal with each other, especially before others. At moments like this, however, the familiarity of five thousand years of friendship kicked in, and they fell into a colloquial mix of Quenya and Sindarin with a smattering of Westron thrown in. And Glorfindel would call Elrond "_peredhel_".

Around the corner from the treatment room, in the preparation area of the healing halls, a black-haired young maiden sat rolling bandages, her shoulders shaking with silent mirth as she listened to the voices carrying loud and clear from the treatment room, an unholy smile on her lovely face. She couldn't help it. It was so amusing hearing the Lord of the Golden Flower being tortured.

This was the first time she had heard Glorfindel and Elrond converse in this informal manner, and she did sit up and take notice of one word. _Peredhel_.

Half-elven?

She knew of one half-elven.

She had tried to throw him down from a city wall.

It was early summer, and Maeglin had been in Imladris for two months now. She had decided within a week that she was not going to pass her days listening to Lindir sing, or sitting in the trees putting flowers in her hair, or playing a flute or harp, or whatever it was other elf-maids in this place seemed to do.

She had sought out Erestor and asked him if there was some useful way she might occupy herself. The dark-haired green-eyed councillor had looked at the black-eyed maiden thoughtfully. She had looked back at him with her most maidenly demeanour.

He had sent her to the healing halls.

The healer Lindawen, who had tended Maeglin on her first day in Imladris, taught her various duties such as how to gather and prepare herbs, measure them for medicines, and bandage wounds and do simple suturing. There was ample practice in a valley with active war training ongoing at all times, and regular skirmishes with orcs and wargs in the surrounding countryside. There were also daily hunting expeditions sent out, on which accidents could happen. All this unfortunately meant that Glorfindel came into the halls fairly regularly, either to tend to his warriors who were wounded, or because he himself was wounded.

She did not quite dislike him as much as she did when she had first come to Imladris. He had been unfailingly courteous with her, and not attempted to play a single prank. For much of the time he gave her a clear berth and spoke to her only when necessary. Sometimes she caught him looking at her, and always he would look away quickly, a tell-tale blush on his neck or ears. And she would smile to herself.

She saw the other _elleth_ healers swoon over him, and her lip would curl in derision. The Lord of the Golden Flower had no appeal to her, she told herself. And anyway, she was done with love.

If she had brought one lesson with her from her last life, it was this: _Love is pain. Shun it._

As she sat rolling bandages on this fine summer's day, she would not have called it a fulfilling life. There was nothing more mindnumbingly boring than rolling bandages, and she had been glad of the entertainment from the treatment room. But boring is peaceful, and better than what she had had previously, she told herself.

Anyway, _peredhel_. Maeglin began to feel a little queasy.

It was shortly after that that she asked Lindawen the healer about Elrond's parents, and discovered that she was under the roof of Idril and Tuor's grandson.

The news left her stunned for a moment. First Glorfindel being here. Now this.

She shivered at the thought of Elrond ever finding out her identity, not only because of the retribution that would follow, but because he had been kind to her. She did not want to imagine him looking on her with loathing.

Her first impulse was that she should leave this place.

Her next thought was that maybe the Valar had actually been wise. For who would ever look for the soul of a traitor in the body of a young elf-maid?

She looked out of the windows of the healing halls at the fair green valley, the cascading waterfalls, and the summer blossoms in the meadows. Everything seemed new and fair. And she decided to stay. At least for now. As long as Glorfindel kept out of her way.

* * *

><p>The beds of herbs looked as though marauding orcs had rampaged through them.<p>

"More likely elflings enacting a battle with a balrog," said Elrond with a sigh, surveying the devastation. About two to three elflings were born in Imladris each year, which meant that at any one time, since elflings grow slowly, there would be a marauding horde of twenty roaming the valley of Imladris. Inspired by the tales in the great Hall of Fire, they would act out the great deeds of yore for days afterwards. On this morning, the Battle of the Sudden Flame had been waged through the precious beds of _athelas_ and _lissuin _and other healing herb essentials.

"We need a taller fence and a lock on the garden gate. We've been saying that for the last few centuries. It's time to do it," said Glorfindel.

Lindawen sighed. "We don't have the seeds for some of these. It is time to go out of the valley to gather."

"Wait a few days. Patrols report too much orc and warg activity outside the borders," said Glorfindel.

"We may miss the season for planting. And our stocks for some of these are running lower than they should."

"All right. You will go with a few warriors," said Elrond. "And bring Lómiel with you."

Glorfindel decided that he would accompany them himself, together with two of the guard, Emlindir and Beril. He guarded the rear in his grey tunic and leggings with two great swords strapped to his back, and as they walked, besides scanning the area for danger he was looking at Maeglin's back, the shining waterfall of black hair, and occasional glimpses of her profile.

The past two months had been torture. Unfailingly, every time he saw her, he would feel himself getting hot. For some bizarre reason, Erestor had decided to give Maeglin a permanent bedchamber right next to Glorfindel's, and the look on both their faces when they had first seen each other in the corridor and realized this fact had, to say the least, been interesting.

Erestor had insisted to Glorfindel that there were no other rooms available. A blatant lie, thought Glorfindel. He must have seen the chilly looks Maeglin gave the seneschal in the dining hall and decided to torture him with the one female who hated him.

So he always found himself listening for her in the room next to his, or her footstep in the corridor, and watching for her in the hallways. He had a heightened awareness of her when she had entered a room, or when her voice was speaking, even from afar.

_In all the blessed realm of Arda, if I had to fall in lust with anyone—ANYONE—why, WHY would it be with. . ._

And the favoured servant of the Valar began to feel that they had abandoned him. For each of the Eldar, there was one person in Arda for whom their hearts would beat, the one that would complete them, and the Valar had given him this one. Not just underaged, which at moments made him deeply fearful about his predilections, but the one person who had been the perpetrator of his own death, his best friend's death, the ruin of Gondolin the beautiful, the home he still dreamed of occasionally and missed much, and the loss of half a million fair and innocent lives. And the face that he should abhor filled him instead with longing. _Longing_. He could only hope that this folly would pass quickly.

It did not.

Two months later it burned as fierce and strong.

And he began to tell himself that this could not be the traitor. No, this delicate and lovely maid could not be Maeglin Lómion. The name Lómiel is just a coincidence. The nightmare—which had never recurred after that night—well, the nightmare had been a one off, and remained a mystery. And he wondered over time if some of that night might have been his own fantasy, his own dark memories of Gondolin's fall surfacing. Watching her quietly grinding medicines and bandaging patients, he told himself, _I must have been insane, this is not the prince of Gondolin, this is just a maid. _And he began to hope and dream. That he would be patient, and wait for his maiden to come of age, and court her, and make her his.

Their foraging for herbs went well. Following the map that detailed where each was grown, they managed to uproot several good specimens and get cuttings of others. Their bags were quite full as they turned back for home.

"We should be home before dusk," said Glorfindel, his blue eyes stern and looking about as though he sensed something. "We need to hurry."

The ambush was quick and vicious.

The orcs came down upon them from both sides, about twenty of them. "Keep close to me!" Glorfindel commanded Maeglin, while Emlindir and Beril protected Lindawen. Pushing Maeglin behind him, Glorfindel slashed through an orc to his right, cleaving it open from throat to groin. _One down_. While his power could cause orcs to flee from his light, he had noted recently that the reverse was true of the most recent breed of orc to enter this region. His light was a magnet for them_. Two down. Three_. So now he found himself up against a horde of them, and having to keep Maeglin close to him to protect her was a handicap. He could not use his greatest advantage, his swiftness of movement, to evade his attackers. _Four. _Then he noticed that she was no longer behind him and panicked. Sensing an orc behind him, he swung round to slash at it.

It fell before his blade struck.

As the orc's body fell, he saw Maeglin behind it, a golden battle fire flickering in her black eyes. In her two hands she wielded an orcish sword, her body held low in battle stance.

Two ages ago, in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, the Houses of the Golden Flower and the Mole had been pushed together as the battle raged. As he fought, Glorfindel saw the prince, Maeglin Lómion, lose his sword in the fighting to his right. The black blade Anguirel went flying, and the Lord of the Mole, weaponless, was using all his agility and speed to dodge the blades of the two orcs attacking him, whilst he tried futilely to retrieve his sword. The orcs were only pushing him further away from it. "Lómion! Catch!" Glorfindel often fought with two swords, one in each hand. In that split-second, Lómion turned, their eyes met, and Glorfindel flung the blade in his right hand to him, which Lómion skillfully caught by the hilt, just in time to parry a blow by an orcish axe that would have severed his princely neck.

Glorfindel looked into the black eyes of his maiden. "Catch!" He threw one of his swords to her. Casting away the orcish blade in disgust, she caught his sword with ease. They fought back to back, and what she lacked of the grace and power of his strokes, she made up for with sheer ferocity.

When the last orc had fallen, they stood side by side, blood-spattered, and exchanged looks, seeing the battle light die down in each other's eyes, hers golden, his white. His heart was breaking from despair.

"How many did you get?" she asked him.

"Ten," he said. "You?"

"Four," she replied, and scowled. She wiped his blade clean on the grass, and held the hilt of the sword to him. "My thanks."

As she had done over six thousand years ago.

He took it and sheathed it.

Emlindir, Beril and Lindawen were staring at her.

"Let's go," said Glorfindel, ignoring their looks.

Maeglin took a step forward, and collapsed to the ground.

Adrenalin and the muscle memory of a century of vigorous military training had seen her through the battle, but now every muscle in her body had gone weak or seized into spasm. She tried to get to her feet, but her body refused to obey her. And she was trembling from head to foot. She gritted her teeth, hating to be weak. Especially before him.

Glorfindel lifted her into his arms and began the walk back to Imladris.

"Put me down," she said weakly, her head against his shoulder.

"Why? So you can crawl back?"

"I can't see where I'm going."

"I can carry you like this, or you can ride on my back. Choose."

So they went back with him feeling her warm body against his back, her legs around his hips, her breath against his left ear and her arms wrapped around his neck. Torn between bliss and torment, Glorfindel thought that he would die.

* * *

><p>Now, Elrond shook his head over Maeglin. A wrenched shoulder and several pulled muscles. Sore and swollen wrists. Masses of blisters on her hands. She had taken cuts on her arms and her knuckles were raw. Her forehead had caught the edge of a blade, and a tear slid down her stoic, expressionless face as Elrond stitched it.<p>

Glorfindel had vanished, waving off all who wanted to dress his cuts.

"I hear you fought very well today," Elrond said. "Who taught you?"

_Glorfindel did_, she thought.

"Was it your father?" Elrond asked.

She nodded.

"Would you like to train with the guard?" She would probably be a better warrior than a healer, Elrond thought.

She made a wry face. _With Glorfindel?_

"I'll think about it," she replied.

Going straight from the healing halls to the stables, Glorfindel jumped onto Asfaloth and rode as fast and as hard as he could away from the house. Climbing the slopes of the encircling hills like one pursued by wargs, he ascended past the cascading waters of the falls, and in the middle of the wilderness, roared out in misery to the cruel heavens: "_WHY, ERU? WHY?"_

He loved Maeglin Lómion. Utterly. Desperately.

And there was no longer any shadow of doubt in his heart that it was Maeglin Lómion whom he had fought side by side with today, and carried on his back ten miles to the healing halls. He could still feel her weight on his back, her warmth, her arms and legs wrapped around him. He could still see her fierce face as she stood with the orcish blade in her hands. The face and blazing eyes of the Lord of the Mole.

Glorfindel sat on the rocks of the mountainside, buried his head in his hands, and wept.

* * *

><p>It was autumn. Glorfindel strode grimly towards the healing halls. He was missing a few of his newest cadets, and he knew where to find them. Many of them were below the age of majority, new to the discipline of his training, and as frisky and silly as puppies.<p>

As he opened the door to the healing halls, he could hear voices coming from one of the treatment rooms.

"Come with us to gather apples, our sweet!"

"Or let us take a walk into the hills!"

"The autumn festival is next week! Will you dance with us?"

"Oh yes, my blossom—save one dance for me!" At which jeers and the sounds of a scuffle broke out among the cadets.

Glorfindel moved until he could see into the open door.

Maeglin was stitching a gash on the leg of a young cadet with green eyes and brown hair, and four of his friends were gathered around her.

Glorfindel's blue eyes took on an angry glint. But he kept his distance and waited.

"You are standing in my light, young worthies," Maeglin said in a carefully even voice as she concentrated on her stitches. And truly, the silly pups were blocking much of the light from the window.

"Oh, fair flower, you know not how truly you speak!" said one with an attempt at a meaningful gaze.

"We are indeed _standing in your light-_!" chimed in one with beautiful silver eyes.

"Such light as comes from eyes so lovely and sweet."

Glorfindel smiled as he saw a black eyebrow lift and saw a dangerous glint come into the eyes he knew so well. Maeglin was many things. Sweet was not one. He waited for it. One. Two. Three-

"One look from your eyes could slay us, my sweet."

"But be kind, fair maid! Say you will dance!"

The black eyes had narrowed and golden fire flickered.

"GET OUT!"

Finally. It had taken a lot longer than he thought. The prince of Gondolin was getting soft.

"OUT OF HERE! THE LOT OF YOU! _NOW_!" The four cadets spilled out of the treatment room and ran into Glorfindel.

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" he snapped at them.

"Arasdil _fell_—"

"He hurt his _leg_—"

"We _had_ to help him here—he couldn't walk!"

"We were _just_ going back—_honest_!"

"Back to training in _ten seconds_ or I'll have you cleaning the weapons room for the next month!"

The cadets sped away on light, swift feet down the corridor.

The brown haired cadet with green eyes was still in the room with Maeglin.

"Sir—" he said.

Glorfindel came in, had a look at the gash, and said, "Be more careful next time. No more horsing around."

His eyes met Maeglin's briefly. He saw the hint of a smile before she bowed her head again to her work.

She had not been as cold to him since that day they had fought together.

He could not unsee the face of the prince of Gondolin when he looked at her now. And still he burned. He did not trust himself alone with her. Had the cadet not been there in the room, he would not have dared enter. Or he might have given in to temptation and done what he dreamed nightly. Pulled the prince of Gondolin down onto the couch where the cadet now lay.

Abruptly, he turned and left.

* * *

><p>The dark-haired mortal boy sat next to Maeglin as they both ground dried herbs with mortar and pestle.<p>

Estel was the first mortal Maeglin had ever known whom she liked. He occasionally came by the healing halls in between his lessons and combat training to learn about medicines and healing lore. The descendant of Elros Half-elven would quietly pull out from his pocket snacks that he had pilfered from the kitchen, and share them with her. He had the rare gift of being able to talk to her while she worked without annoying her—rare in anyone, let alone a mortal boy of twelve. He had a charisma and gravitas that was far beyond his years. She wondered what his ancestor Eärendil would have been like at twelve. She remembered the future star only as a seven-year-old – a beautiful but detestable blond brat who had kicked and punched Maeglin as the prince of Gondolin tried to kill him.

As his golden-haired swordfighting tutor walked out of the healing halls, Estel looked from the tall warrior to Maeglin with sage eyes and pronounced, "He likes you".

"He would be one of the rare few then."

A glimmer of amusement crossed the boy's face. "You know very well what I mean. He blushes a little every time you talk to him or he even looks at you. He does that for no one else. He has to be in love with you."

"Oh? And what would _you_ know of love, young master?"

Giving her his most wise and enigmatic look, the boy had declined to reply and looked away with an expression both dreamy and pensive.

Elrond's daughter Arwen had arrived a week ago at Imladris to celebrate the autumn festival.

* * *

><p>Late autumn.<p>

It was one of those hunting expeditions that had gone quite wrong. The Imladris hunters had became game themselves as an orc ambush landed two of the party in the healing halls, the more gravely injured of whom was Glorfindel, who had taken the brunt of the vicious attack in his effort to defend the others, and who had not been wearing any armour.

"You are fortunate indeed to still have most of your guts," said Elrond grimly as he finished the final sutures on his seneschal's abdomen. "How are you feeling now?"

"Oh absolutely marvellous Elrond," said the golden-haired warrior as he lay on the bed. "Just marvellous. You know, you are the most wonderful friend in the whole world. The most wonderful friend. I love you so much."

Elrond frowned. How much painkiller had his assistants given the balrog slayer?

"You're my best friend ever. I love you so much, Elrond. You should always do your hair that way."

Elrond left the room before the balrog slayer could tell him again how much he loved him. "How much painkiller did you give Lord Glorfindel?" he demanded of Lindawen the healer.

"Just an extra dram, lord. It was going to be such a long operation. And he was in so much pain."

Elrond sighed. "Well, it should do him no harm. Come, let's tend to Emlindir now. I will need your assistance for this." To the assistant healer nearby, who was preparing disinfectant for the wounds, Elrond said, "Lómiel, please dress Lord Glorfindel's wounds."

As Maeglin set her bandages and ointments by the bed, Glorfindel said, "There you are my lovely. I missed you so much. You look so beautiful." And she froze as he cheerfully told her in some detail what he would love to do to her that moment if he could only move.

She replied that she had long, sharp instruments that could do the same to him if he said that again.

After she had slathered disinfectant ointment on his wounds, and was sliding the bandages under his abdominal region and wrapping them around him—a little more roughly than she should have—he told her how wonderful it felt and what would feel even better if she just moved her hands a little lower.

She told him what he would lose if her hands moved a little lower.

As she trimmed off the ends of the bandages, he told her how beautiful her lips were and where he thought they should go and what he thought they could do.

At which the Lord of the Mole clouted the Lord of the Golden Flower unconscious with a hard blow of her fist to his head, and swept out of the room with burning cheeks.

Just when she had been beginning to think better of him. It confirmed every Gondolin marketplace scandal she had ever heard, and cemented her low opinion of him. She _hated_ him.

And Glorfindel, waking ten hours later, had not the slightest memory of anything that had happened.

Lómiel refused to enter into Glorfindel's room any more.

_I will kill him if I do._

Elrond looked at her, shocked by her insubordination. "As healers, we serve all!" he reprimanded her sternly. "What did Lord Glorfindel do?"

"He did not do anything, my lord," she said with a stony face.

Elrond remembered the painkiller. "Was it anything he said?"

She did not look at him but her eyes flickered gold and she blushed.

_Impossible_, thought Elrond. _I've known him five thousand years and he would never—_

There was no point forcing her to do anything.

"Lord Elrond, you have a new assistant now." An elleth named Neldanna had just joined them. "I think we would all agree I am not suited to this work. I ask to be discharged from my duties."

Elrond sighed. "I'm afraid I do agree. Thank you for all your labours here. Do you know what you would like to do now?"

"I have something in mind, lord." And she curtseyed and left.


	7. Chapter 7: The Smithy

Glorfindel had been surprised and dismayed to find out that Lómiel had left the healing halls. Except nobody told him why. When Lómiel had emerged red-faced from the lord's room and asked if Lord Glorfindel commonly made inappropriate remarks, the other healers had looked at her in open-mouthed shock.

"Inappropriate remarks? What sort of inappropriate remarks?"

At which she had tightened her lips and declined to say.

"There must be a misunderstanding, Lómiel. Lord Glorfindel is ever the perfect gentleman," said Lindawen.

"Unfortunately," sighed a brown-haired assistant who was always the first to volunteer when the balrog slayer needed a sponge bath.

At which Lómiel opened and closed her mouth, and then said that yes, she must have misunderstood.

And then refused to ever go into the room again.

Now, three days after she had left, the healers were still whispering about it at the halls out of earshot of Glorfindel.

Next to the stables lies a low building connected to the main house by a covered walkway. Next to it, a wide, lively stream flows. Before it lies an apple orchard, beyond which the ground gently slopes away to a meadow which in summer is covered with cornflowers, buttercups, and poppies. It was late autumn now, and the meadow was golden and brown in the morning sun. Late apples still glowed red in the yellowing trees. A light frost was melting in the morning sun.

Maeglin walked slowly beneath the apple trees, listening to the familiar sound of hammer on metal which sung to her soul and stirred her heart.

She had been come to the orchard for the past three days, ostensibly to pick apples which she later brought to the Imladris kitchens, but in reality to examine the building which now lay before her.

It was the Imladris smithy. There was not a tremendous amount of work to be done for a population of eight hundred Imladhrim. A single smith, tall and silver haired, was beating a kitchen cleaver on an anvil, his tools arrayed on the walls beside him.

A single furnace at the back with double bellows. Two anvil blocks.

It was just so sad.

Maeglin sighed. She remembered the large complex of forges and furnaces and workshops at the House of the Mole in Gondolin. The Lord of the Mole had had fifty of the finest smiths working under him, and at least three assistants serving him at any one time. In his own personal forge he had fashioned what he loved best: weapons and armour for the King and the Lords of Gondolin. Ecthelion the Fair, arrayed in the near-impenetrable armour of blue steel Maeglin had crafted, had been a creature of dread beauty to strike fear into the heart of any of Morgoth's minions. The magnificent sword the prince had given to Glorfindel for the golden-haired lord's four hundred and fiftieth begetting day had quickly become the latter's favourite. It had been one of the two he had wielded in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Maeglin had a feeling that it had been the very sword the hero had plunged into the balrog's neck before the monster's whip had wrapped around his golden hair and dragged him into the abyss. Not that Lómiel would ever ask him.

It had not mattered that the prince had hated the Lord of the Golden Flower. Maeglin had taken a ferocious pride in the excellence of his craft, and nothing substandard would ever have left his forge. And oddly, precisely because he disliked Glorfindel so much, he had taken especial care that the sword he gifted was well-crafted. He had not quite understood why himself.

But armour and weapons paled beside Maeglin's greatest achievement: the glory and splendour of the seventh gate of Gondolin, the Gates of Steel. He had worked on it ceaselessly for eight months, scarcely stopping to eat or rest. And when he had finished it and gazed on it in triumph, he had known that it was the most magnificent of all the gates of Gondolin, and that this thing of beauty and strength he had created would be able to last ten thousand years. And it would have, if not for. . . Lómiel quickly broke off the thought.

And to come, from all that glory and splendour, to this.

One furnace, two anvil blocks. And kitchen cleavers. And pots and pans.

Oh yes, there was some weaponry and armour. Through the window of a long workroom to the side of the forge itself she could see, laid out on some tables, armour, swords, chain mail, and hunting knives all needing to be repaired. Very serviceable and common looking elven armour and weapons. No finesse. No style. Her lip had curled in scorn the first time she had set eyes on the armour of the Seneschal of Imladris. That he could go from wearing what she had crafted in days of yore to this. His swords from Valinor, however, were extraordinary. Lómiel had felt almost reluctant to hand back to him the blade that he had lent her, wanting to examine it more closely.

Maeglin's craft in Gondolin had been not just a source of pride. It had been his means of survival. He had laboured for days on end, sometimes, in order to finish a piece. He was the despair of his chefs, who would stand at the doorway of the forge – he forbade them to enter – begging him to but taste a morsel of their most delectable dishes. Drowning himself in his work had allowed him, if only briefly, to escape from wild and despairing thoughts of golden hair, grey eyes, white skin and soft lips.

Lómiel the maiden was free of that curse, but could not deny that smithing was in her blood. It was part of her. She had tried to run from it. Now she wanted to come home.

There were several reasons why she had not done so earlier. Why she had tried to run.

It wasn't just her dismay at the size of the smithy, or that the work could not satisfy. It was that if you were a reviled traitor disguised as an elf-maid and wanted to be inconspicuous, being one healing assistant among five females was much more effective than being a young maiden at a forge.

And how could she work under another? She who had commanded fifty? The silver-haired smith was skilled and competent, she could see. But she had been more than skilled and competent. She had been the son of one of the greatest elven smiths in Beleriand and had been a great smith herself. To take orders like a lackey would rankle. And she knew: she would want to do things her own way.

With these thoughts she had tussled for the past few days since she left the healing halls.

This morning she had risen and looked at herself long in the mirror.

The slender maid who looked back at her was no longer Lómion, great smith of Gondolin. These arms would never be able to fashion a sword again. She saw a youngling not yet of age. Yet the lure of seeing metal come to life under her hands once more was too great. She would have to swallow her pride, become an apprentice, and do what crumbs of work were thrown her way. And bite her tongue and do things her master's way.

If the smith would have her, that is. . .

The Imladris smith, Camaen, looked up from the sword he was tempering and saw that the black-haired maiden who had been hovering around the forge for the past three days was now walking towards him.

"Fine day," said Camaen, by way of greeting.

"Very fine," she replied.

"I've seen you around. You take an interest in smithing, then?"

"Yes, my father was a smith."

"Ah."

"He taught me a few things. Could you use a pair of hands around here?"

"That I could, but smithing's hard on a lass with hands as white and dainty as yours."

The blade hissed as Camaen plunged it into cold water. Then the sound of metal on stone, as he began to grind the blade.

She was shaping the next stage of her argument in her head when she became aware of someone behind her. Somehow she knew who it was before she turned her head, and stiffened.

"Lord Glorfindel," she said icily.

"My lady Lómiel, Camaen," he bowed to them slightly. As he stood in the morning sunlight, his golden hair was dazzling in its radiance. Over his usual light grey leggings, he had a white tunic thrown on, unbelted, and backlit by the sunlight, one could see beneath the fabric that his abdomen was still swathed in bandages, and he moved slowly. He should still have been bed-bound in the healing halls, but nobody had ever been able to keep Glorfindel in bed once he was able to get out of it. The only way would have been to sedate him or tie him down. Behind his back, she could see he was holding a bunch of carrots. He must have been on his way to visit Asfaloth in the stables. The gut injury would mean he had been on a liquid diet for a while. The tall hero had faint blue shadows under his eyes, and he looked luminous and ethereal in the morning light. Almost fragile.

Despite the circumstances of their last encounter and how angry she still was with him, she felt a strange sensation fluttering in her stomach.

Glorfindel had come out of the healing halls only to see Asfaloth, and as soon as he saw Lómiel at the forge with Camaen, he had understood her intent.

"The young lady has asked for work in the smithy, Lord Glorfindel," said Camaen. "It isn't work fit for a fair young maiden."

"Nerdanel, daughter of Mahtan is a smith," said the maiden quickly.

"Very true. And she is famed for some excellent metalwork, which I have had the chance to admire," Glorfindel said.

"It is hot and hard work," said Camaen.

"I am afraid neither of fire nor hard work."

"I am sure you are not," said Glorfindel. "Well. I don't think you have the muscles to lift Camaen's hammer. But there is a variety of other work to be done. Camaen, she could do other crafts and lighter metalwork for you. It has been lonely out here since your master Olron went west, has it not? And too much work for one smith. What about taking her on trial as an assistant for a few days?"

Her eyes widened at finding an ally in the Lord of the Golden Flower.

"I won't get in the way and be a nuisance," she said quickly. "I know my way around a forge."

_You definitely do_, thought Glorfindel, smiling at the sight of the prince of Gondolin humbling himself.

Camaen nodded. "Come by tomorrow at eight. I'll find you something to do."

The smile of relief on her face was radiant. "Thank you."

Then she turned. "Thank you, Lord Glorfindel." And though her words were cool, he saw gratitude in her eyes. He gave her a boyish, lopsided smile, and slowly walked away to the stables with his handful of carrots, his ears a little red.

Three days later, Glorfindel had discharged himself from the healing halls and the first thing he did was to go to the smithy to check if Camaen was still alive.

The smith certainly was. From under the apple trees, Glorfindel saw Camaen cheerfully whistling as he hammered out some dents in a cooking pot. Through the window of the adjourning workroom, framed by the almost-bare ivy which grew around it, he saw his Maeglin. She was wearing a woollen tunic over leggings and boots, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a thick, shapeless apron over all. Her long hair was clipped at the nape of her neck and fell in a tail down her back. The Lord of the Mole had always hated the fuss of braiding his hair, Glorfindel thought. He saw that she had cut off some of the length of her hair so it now fell only to her waist, the same length as his own. Having gathered her tools, she sat down at a table and started mending the links in a chain mail shirt, her face stern as she concentrated on her work.

He gazed at her dreamily for a while. She looked absolutely enchanting.

Needing some reason to go into the forge, he went to the stables to get Asfaloth. He was certain the front right shoe needed checking.

If Camaen had been apprehensive about taking in the maiden, his fears had quickly been put to rest. She needed merely a few words of instruction, would nod silently, and then get the work done with no fuss. She astonished him with skills and knowledge beyond her years – but just how much he would never know, because she was extremely careful not to give too much away.

Glorfindel often seemed to have reason to drop by. Once all of Asfaloth's shoes had been dutifully checked, he got the metal links in a harness strap repaired that seemed to be "a little loose". After that, by dint of digging through the sizable collection of weapons and armour in his bedroom, he was able to find various daggers, arrows, shields, swords, helmets, and vambraces, which all needed some trivial form of attention even though some of them had not been used since the Last Alliance in the Second Age. And he was careful to bring them in to the forge one by one.

This allowed him to observe his black-eyed maiden quite closely. He watched her watch Camaen work. Saw more than once a flash in the black eyes, saw her almost speak then swallow the comment. He could read the thought in her mind: _I would have done it a better way. _Once he heard her comment casually on a technique her father had used for something, but in so offhand a way that it could not be construed as criticism. And Camaen, who was an open-minded and curious soul, would think about it, and perhaps ask her for more details. Later, after experimenting, he might actually adopt the technique suggested if it worked for him.

Glorfindel saw with pleasure how well and wisely she was controlling herself. Who would ever have thought it possible of Maeglin Lómion?

She mostly ignored him when he visited the smithy. At the winter solstice festival, however, she surprised him by giving him a set of five throwing knives she had made. It was her way of thanking him for getting her the apprenticeship, he knew. He fingered the points and handled them. They were beautifully weighted, and exquisitely finished. "They're excellent," he said, touched and hopeful. And received a smile in return.

Then the very next day, things went south. He had been leaning on the wall talking to Camaen when he noticed Maeglin taking a smelting urn out of the furnace and pouring molten cast iron into a mould. It was too heavy for her. Her slender wrists were shaking and unsteady.

He did what was most natural. He crossed over, took the urn holder from her hand, and poured the iron for her. Only to look up, and see her looking at him with a strained expression on her face. Her eyes looked pained.

"Thank you, Lord Glorfindel," she said stiffly. And retreated into the workroom.

What had he done wrong?

He sighed. One step forward, one step back.


	8. Chapter 8: Snow

It was her first winter at Imladris. The valley lay under a pristine layer of soft white snow.

Maeglin was putting the finishing touches on a necklace that Elladan and Elrohir had requested as a gift for their sister Arwen, when she heard the boisterous shouts and laughter outside the smithy's shuttered windows. Reluctant to leave the cosy warmth of her workroom, she tried to ignore it. There were many voices, but one voice, one laugh she could not mistake—that of Glorfindel.

A loud burst of silvery laughter, loud cheers and claps, interlaced with several cries of dismay.

Curiosity getting the better of her, she wrapped her cloak around her, pulled up the hood, and stepped out into the freezing cold of the winter day.

In an Imladhrim winter tradition, Glorfindel had challenged his captains and elite corps—twenty warriors—to a snowfight. Him against them all. He generally always won.

Glorfindel loved snow. He had missed it dearly in Valinor. Right now, he was quickly picking off his best warriors with well-aimed snowballs. All of them never ceased to wonder – how did he manage to shape and throw his snowy projectiles while staying on the run all the time?

The rule was simple. A hit to any part of the body meant you were out, and so far he had knocked out eleven of them and was still untouchable. Those already eliminated from the game stood around cheering.

"Come on, my brave captains! Is this the best you can do?" he called out tauntingly as he ran, leaving next to no prints on the soft snow. "Has winter feasting has made you so slow?" He was a grey blur of fluid movement in his winter cloak, almost dancing as he dodged the white missiles flying at him. His white projectile landed in the face of another warrior and he laughed merrily as cheers broke out. Without a pause, he swung himself up a tree with one fluid move, dispatched another warrior with a snowball to the chest, and another snowball into Erestor's face for good measure—just for fun—as the hapless councillor emerged round the corner of the house. "You can do better than that," he sang out to his warriors as he leaped from his tree into another, landing with a grace that would shame a cat. "Put some heart into it, my worthies—"

And then his eyes met Maeglin's.

For just a fraction of a moment the balrog-slayer lost his concentration and almost his footing. It was enough. A relentless volley of white snowballs pelted the elflord and knocked him out of his tree and onto the snow below. To give him credit he landed on his feet, but all twenty elven warriors were upon him at once with howls of triumph, and rapidly buried the laughing seneschal in a snow drift. Soon, so much snow was being flung in the air that a mini blizzard seemed to have erupted, and all the fair, brave warriors were giggling and snorting with laughter and tumbling about in the soft, deep snow.

And through the flurry of snow, bodies and long elven hair, even as he gave Gildor Inglorion a faceful of snow, Glorfindel saw his black-eyed maiden leaning against an apple tree and laughing helplessly till her eyes had tears.

And he thought he hadn't minded his pride taking a tumble just to see that.

* * *

><p>Snow blanketed the fair city of Gondolin, white on white. The Lord of the Mole, walking through the square, stopped to watch the Lord of the Golden Flower making a public spectacle of himself. Yet again. The youngest Lord of Gondolin was only ninety-five years old that winter but he felt that the Lord of the Golden Flower, the second youngest Lord and three centuries older, behaved infinitely more childishly.<p>

Fifteen children of the House of the Golden Flower were chuckling and squealing with delight as they ran after their golden-haired lord, rolling snowballs in their little hands and flinging them at him. Glorfindel loved these moments with the elflings, simply for the joy in innocent play they gave him. That it also gave him a chance to talent-spot those with exceptionally good reflexes and deadly aim was far less important, but well, still useful.

"_Nai_! You got me!" he cried as one tot barely reaching his knee successfully hit him in the thigh with snow.

Dramatically falling to the ground, he grabbed his thigh. With wild squeals they were clambering over him, sitting on his chest and legs, and wrapping their arms around his neck and pulling at his long golden hair. "We _got_ him!" "_Kill_ the giant!" "_Tie_ his legs!" They rolled about in the snow laughing, as elf matrons rushed in fearful for the safety of both their lord and their children.

"It's fine, goodwives, all happy and no harm done," said the elflord, somehow managing to rise to his feet with a child in each arm. The little girl on his back had her arms so tightly wrapped around his neck that he could barely talk. Another five little ones of various heights latched onto his legs, and squealed with delight as he tried to walk. The ladies retrieved their children, a few of them brushing snow off the elflord's clothes and hair.

"It's time to sup, lord."

"Will you come partake with us?" said one as she removed a child trying to pull out a handful of the elflord's famous locks.

"Thank you for the generous invitation, goodwives, but the lords sup with the king tonight," Glorfindel said with a smile and a graceful bow, taming his rumpled hair with his fingers. Catching sight of the Lord of the Mole, he hailed him cheerfully. "Well met, Prince Lómion!"

Must he always be so confoundedly cheerful?

"Reliving elfling days, I see, Lord Laurëfindel."

As this was more loquacious than usual for the taciturn, black-haired lord, Glorfindel was encouraged to reply, "Not merely for elflings, Prince Lómion. A little snow play does everyone a world of good, methinks." He rolled a snowball and said, "Come! Join me for a short one, I pray!"

"I think not—" Maeglin began, and got a faceful of snow.

Eyes gleaming with mischief, Glorfindel said. "That was the challenge. Now. The rules. Very simple. A hit to any part of the body of the opponent decides the victor." He had rolled another ball in his hands, and was holding it in readiness. He cocked his head to one side. "My lord?"

Glorfindel smiled in anticipation as Maeglin, glowering dangerously, stooped and picked up a handful of snow.

Glorfindel was faster and lighter, but Maeglin was alert and agile. The two darted around the square, unleashing a rapid series of missiles, none of which found their target. Despite the slight smile on his face, Maeglin was in dead earnest. What angered him was that he sensed Glorfindel was barely trying, whereas he was putting all he had into both assault and defence. Complacency would be the dolt's undoing, he thought grimly with narrowed eyes.

Into every snowball he flung, Maeglin loaded years of anger and resentment at the golden-haired lord. He thought of Idril laughing helplessly at Glorfindel's jokes. Of Idril leaning on Glorfindel's arm as they walked her gardens, fair heads together deep in talk. Idril rumpling Glorfindel's hair affectionately. The rage of jealousy spurred him, and the violence of his icy projectiles was so great that when he finally hit Glorfindel on the side of the head as they chased each other around and over the frozen fountain, the Lord of the Golden Flower fell face forward into the snow and lay there stunned for a short while. Maeglin compacted his snowballs more densely, and his snowball had packed quite a blow. Maeglin gave a shout of victory, and the crowd that had gathered to watch burst into applause which gathered in volume as Glorfindel got to his feet rubbing the side of his head ruefully, but grinning from ear to ear.

"Good shot, Lómion!" Glorfindel said, brushing snow from his face and coming forward to shake hands. "You throw a mean snowball!" And Maeglin found himself grasping the proffered hand firmly in his own, and returning a wry smile.

"See you later at the palace!" Glorfindel called as he waved and headed home to dress for dinner.

Going on his way, Maeglin felt his blood warm in his veins, and his heart lighter than it had been for many seasons.

A little snowplay could indeed do one a world of good.


	9. Chapter 9: Spurned

Maeglin had no patience for the tiresome antics of the cadets who still sometimes hung about the forge and teased her. They almost seemed to enjoy it when she unleashed her wrath on them, so she took to ignoring them entirely.

But when a tall young archer with brown hair in one long braid and glittering green eyes came alone one summer day, leaned in at the window of the forge and shyly offered her a lovely bouquet of wildflowers, she looked into his shining gentle eyes and was so taken aback that she took it from his hand. And later sat it in a bowl of water on her worktable.

Arasdil son of Erildur was the young cadet whose leg she had stitched up seven summers ago. He came by several times over the next few weeks, each time with something small, offered in the same quiet way. He was about the same age as her rebodied self, perhaps a little younger. His offerings included a pretty poem, a skilled sketch of her at work, more flowers. His gentleness and youthfulness touched her as nothing had for a long time, but she was uneasy where this was heading.

Then one day he waited for her to finish her work and asked if he could walk with her. And taken aback once again, she did, over the meadow and under the birch trees. She regretted it almost as soon as she said yes, feeling how awkward and silly this all was, as they walked side by side silently through the buttercups and cornflowers. When his friends espied them from afar from the terrace outside the house, and lifted up a great uproar of cheers and whistles, he blushed deeply, and she was so furious that she could have snatched the bow and quiver from his back and shot them all dead. Glorfindel did not join the cheering. He stood apart with an unreadable expression on his face, then sharply silenced his cadets with a curt command.

Later that evening, watching the young archer walk away she was troubled. What lay ahead with this innocent child? What could he ever know of her? And what could she do but taint him with her darkness?

And she knew she had to end it quickly, though she found herself loath to hurt him.

She knew that there was no way that Idril could have spurned her that would not have hurt.

* * *

><p>The autumn moon hung huge and golden in a starry sky. The young prince and regent of Gondolin abruptly left the feast in the King's great hall and went out into the garden, where the flower beds were already bare, and a thin layer of frost lay on the earth and on the trees as they turned red and gold.<p>

He could bear it no longer. Could not bear to be in her presence, hungering to touch, and to know that he could not hope to. That till the unmaking of all things, his love was forbidden.

Why must it have been _her_? Why had they to be born close kin? Truly, it must be his father cursing him even now from beyond the grave, blighting every hope of happiness that he might ever have. Forever.

_Forever_. It was a terrible word. He was only a hundred years old, and the last fifty years had been a torment that had seemed endless. What would _forever_ mean, to one who is immortal? What does it mean, to have a love that is never to be requited, desire that is never to be sated, a fire that will never be quenched? _Never_. An even more terrible word. Despair that has no end. The heat, he could not bear it, that burned in him day and night. He was going mad. Perhaps he already was.

He felt the cold autumn breeze on his burning cheeks. He looked over the city wall and remembered his father's curse.

He looked down and felt dizzy. It would be so easy just to fall and end it all.

It would take so little.

"Lómion, there you are. Why are you here alone in the night?"

_That voice. _

He did not turn or reply. He did not trust himself. He wanted to seize her slender waist, to kiss the white throat.

"It is cold out here," she said, joining him at the railing. "Come, do you not wish to dance? There are a dozen fair maids within who are eager to be introduced to you."

"I do not dance, cousin," he said tightly, unable to look at the only person he wished to dance with.

"Ah, that has been an oversight. I should arrange for some dancing lessons for you. But it is easy. Come, I can show you right now."

"No, Itarillë. Leave me be. Please."

With a smile, she took his hand. "Do not be shy. I am sure you will do very well."

He shivered at her touch, felt his heat rising and overpowering him. "Please. No. Itarillë."

"No one can see us here," she said, and pulled him into the center of the courtyard.

Dazed, he felt her place his hand on her waist, felt the heat of her closeness, smelt her hair. _He could not stop himself._ He tightened his grip on her, and pulled her closer, almost not knowing what he did. Her eyes widened at the hardness of his touch, and she saw the darkness in his black eyes, and realized her danger. And now she tried to pull away, and found his arms gripping her like a vice. "Itarillë," he said huskily, and kissed her on the mouth, tentatively at first, then with a hungry urgency, even as he felt her stiffen and resist. With a sudden burst of desperate strength, she broke away, and he saw the fear in her eyes. "Lómion. What are you doing?" she whispered, backing away.

He advanced on her, his voice low and desperate, the words spilling out intense and rushed. "I love you, Itarillë. I cannot help it. From the moment I saw you. I could as soon stop loving you as I could stop breathing—"

"Lómion, no—we are first cousins, brother and sister, it could never be—"

"You think I know not that?" the anguish was sharp in his voice. "Yet I cannot but love you, Itarillë. I have tried—I did not want this. You don't know how I've fought it, day and night, but I cannot help it. I want you, I _need_ you—like I need air-"

His voice shook, and his dark eyes were full of hurt and despair and rage.

He seized her in his arms and kissed her again, pushing her roughly back against a wall on which a leafless vine climbed.

"Please—help me—I need you," he pleaded, holding her tighter as she struggled to free herself.

"Lómion—please stop—do not do this—" He saw the fear in her eyes though she fought to keep her voice level.

Suddenly, from behind, someone gripped his arms and pried them open from their treasure with ease, then lifted him and set him down away from Idril.

Stunned, heart pounding, the young prince wheeled around to see who had dared lay hands on him and now knew his shame.

Glorfindel stood there, setting himself between the prince and the princess. His eyes were dark blue and flashing with fire, but his face was an impassive mask. He bowed his head in respect to the prince and regent of Gondolin.

The prince saw Idril looking at him from behind Glorfindel. And he saw something else in her eyes besides fear.

He saw that it was he whom she could not love.

It was not just about kinship. It was him that she rejected.

The knife twisted into his heart and sliced it into shreds, even as the hot flame of rage and shame and utter humiliation washed over him. Almost blinded by his pain, the prince turned and fled the garden.

And Glorfindel gazed after him with eyes of pity.

From that day, the prince's hatred of Glorfindel burned deep. He wrapped his shame and pain in pride and aloofness. His words to the Lord of the Golden Flower were cool and civil, almost curt. That Glorfindel in return maintained a consistently respectful and courteous demeanour towards the prince only increased the latter's hate, for every sight of the golden-haired lord reminded him of his shame. And he thought he saw the pity in the blue eyes.

The Lord of the Mole was fair, with his smouldering, intense black eyes and black silken hair that fell thick to his waist. He had his mother's fine features, and his father's strong shoulders, and he moved with the wild grace of a forest predator. Many maids there were, who loved the dark beauty of the prince from afar. Many were there who dreamed of soothing away the loneliness and darkness lurking in his eyes with their love. But his eyes looked through them all, unseeing. And he withdrew more and more into his mines and his forges, like the Mole that named his house.

And ever the heat burned unsated within him. And ever the pain consumed him. But in all his bitterness and despair, he could not hate the one who had spurned him. He loved her still.

His Itarille. Forever.

* * *

><p>They sat on a bench outside the smithy. And as gently and kindly as she knew how to, Maeglin told the brown-haired archer that they should just be friends. And a little awkwardly, she tried to return him his poems and drawings. She saw the sadness in the emerald eyes. But he smiled, and said he understood. He took her hand in his, lifted it to his lips, and gave her palm a tender kiss. Then he placed the poems and sketches she had given back to him back in her hand, and smiled at her, and walked away.<p>

Maeglin sat there a while, still feeling the imprint of his lips warm on her palm. She walked back into the forge, and tossed the papers into the fire carelessly. Then, suddenly thinking better of it, she seized tongs and fished the papers out, beating the flames dead with her hands.

Folding the scorched papers carefully, she slipped them into her apron pocket.

Something so pure might never touch her life again.


	10. Chapter 10: Dreams

Each night, when a golden-haired elflord and a black-haired maiden repaired to their respective bedrooms, they each faced a certain reluctance to retire for the night.

For Glorfindel, it was because when he lay on his bed he thought about Maeglin and was most plagued by his need for her. Unless he was very tired, it could take him an hour or two of tossing and turning to settle to sleep, but once he did he usually slept so soundly he did not dream.

If he did dream, he was a soul not generally prone to nightmares or disturbing dreams. He had, amazingly, never dreamt of the balrog he slew and which had slain him back. Much of the time, his flights into Lórien were pleasant ones, and fairly innocuous except for those involving Maeglin. And certainly those were very pleasant, in spite of the amount of torment Maeglin caused him in his waking hours. For Irmo loved him and was kind to him.

Until the night he dreamt that King Turgon was his father.

He woke up with pounding heart and in a cold sweat. And had no more sleep that night.

He went out to his thinking place, sitting on the railing of his bedchamber balcony again.

It was summer. A storm was brewing on the horizon, and he leaned his chin on his hand and watched the lightning flashes and listened to the distant roar of thunder draw closer.

He had of course wondered many times who his real parents were, as a child. Wondered what had compelled them to leave him on the doorstep of a prince. Wondered if they were still alive. Whether why he had been unwanted. Idril had tried to protect him as a child from the rumours, but of course he managed to overhear them in the way that children do. In the marketplace at Vinyamar. In a corridor of the palace.

That he was Prince Turgon's bastard. _Úcarehína_. Child of sin.

He had not understood the term. And Idril had been livid when he had asked her, though he understood her anger was not against him. And she had refused to explain what it meant. Idril's usual administrations for his existential questions usually involved a lot of cuddling and kisses and assurance that he was loved, and that of course his true parents loved him, and that he should not to listen to nonsense in the marketplace.

As he grew, and understood _úcarehína_, he had wondered if it might be true. That a grieving, lonely prince, who had watched helplessly as his beloved wife had perished in the icy waters of the Helcaraxë, might not have found comfort in one of the lovely ladies surrounding him at court. If that were so, since thrones never went to _úcarehíni, _he would never have expected Turgon to acknowledge him. . .

There was another rumour, and that one had to do with a certain family of golden-haired Noldorin siblings in Beleriand that he had only met one member of in his First Age lifetime: a princess with hair of radiant gold very like his own, who had visited him several times when he was a child, bringing him gifts. A lady who now ruled the golden woods to the south of Imladris. . .

He had by nature never been given to introspection. By the time he came of age, he had shelved all his questions about his origin somewhere in the far recesses of his mind, and thought about them not. Nothing fruitful was likely to come of thinking about it, and life had so many exciting and enjoyable things to do. Like building a new city and moving into it. Like setting up your own House, and running it. Like going for feasts, and playing war games, and training your warriors or training with your fellow lords.

The last time he had thought about his parenthood was a night in Valinor five thousand years ago, when he had asked Idril for a story for old time's sake.

And now—this dream.

Waking with pounding heart and sudden horror. Because of what it meant.

Because it would put him in exactly the position Maeglin Lómion had been six thousand years ago. Hopelessly, helplessly in love with a first cousin, forever sundered by blood and the edict of his race.

He shuddered as he sat on the balcony, and the storm came upon him, rain pelting his bare shoulders. He was feeling once again, that perhaps he was a favourite of the Valar no longer.

That he was cursed.

That he had become Maeglin Lómion.

* * *

><p>As thunder rolled and lightning flashed, Maeglin gasped and sat up in her bed. Trembling. Glad to have awakened from her nightmare.<p>

Her nightmare. She stood shivering on this warm summer night, looking out of the window at the driving rain and the lightning playing across the sky.

She had so many kinds of nightmare, each with their variations, but generally they fell into one of three kinds.

Dreams of Angband, which still recurred—though not with the violent manifestation of that first night she had come to Imladris. Being captured by the Orcs. The long road to Angband, whipped and dragged in chains for two hundred miles. The torture chamber with its infinite ways of delivering pain. The black face of Morgoth, and his infernal eyes of flame. The moment of betrayal when her soul was ripped out and damned.

Dreams of exposure. That her identity is discovered in Imladris, and familiar faces, filled with hate and anger, turn her away. The reviled traitor revealed, losing everything and everyone she has here.

Dreams of Gondolin. The day her mother had died. The curse her father hurled at her as he fell. The night Idril had spurned her. The moment Tuor had hurled her to her death. Falling, falling, turning in space, and the earth rushing to meet her.

Midsummer was coming soon.

This night, her dream had been of that day.

Standing on the city walls of Gondolin, as the people waited to salute the dawn.

Trying to warn them of the coming horror, and finding she had no voice, and they could not see her.

Watching it all happen again.

Watching them all die again.

And being unable to do a thing.

* * *

><p>An autumn night at Gondolin under a harvest moon.<p>

A garden terrace.

A frightened princess and an angry prince, and Glorfindel placing himself between them.

The eyes of the golden lord were on the prince and regent of Gondolin, the Lord of the Mole, who stood in the moonlight with his black hair blowing in the chill autumn breeze, his black eyes smouldering with hurt and loneliness.

Glorfindel walked over to the prince.

And in the golden-silver moonlight, he took the prince's face gently in his hands.

And kissed his lips.

Glorfindel sat bolt upright in his bed, his blue eyes wide with shock.

Thanks be to Eru. It was just a dream.

* * *

><p>An autumn night.<p>

The prince of Gondolin stood on a frosty garden terrace, his mind and heart a perfect storm of shame and rage and lust.

In his path, between him and his desire, stood the Lord of the Golden Flower, the object of his hate.

The elflord's golden hair streamed in the autumn wind. His violet eyes were brilliant as stars under his dark eyelashes, and his beautiful face was grave.

The elflord walked towards the prince.

His heart suddenly pounding with terror, the prince drew his sword but found himself powerless to raise it.

Found himself caught in the strong arms of the elflord, bent backward, and kissed, the sword dropping useless from his hand.

And as the golden-haired elflord made love to him, the prince could no longer tell whether he was man or maiden, whether he loathed or lusted, whether he hated or loved.

Maeglin sighed and stretched as she woke.

Oh. . .

It was just a dream. . .

And somewhere in the land of Lórien, Irmo Lord of Dreams smiled. . .


	11. Chapter 11: The Singer

The first time Maeglin heard the Singer was the morning she decided to climb the northern hills of Imladris. Higher and higher she went, seeking solitude, till she reached rocky slopes and ridges, and stands of fir and pine. Looking down saw the house and the valley small below her.

Midsummer. Pre-dawn. Still dark, the sky lightening already.

Below, the Imladhrim on the lawns outside the house would be facing east to salute the dawn, and she would not join them. She fervently hoped no one would notice her absence, and that she could pass this holiday alone in the hills with a flask of wine, a packet of lembas, and water from clear mountain streams.

Gondolin had fallen on another Midsummer's Day, six thousand years ago. Alone on this hillside, she knew her pain and memories would still be there. But they would be less agonizing than if she were amidst the gaiety and music of the merrymaking on the lawns. The previous year, Lindawen had found her hiding in her bedchamber, and had persuaded her to don a dress and join the singing and the dances.

It had been gruesome.

So this year, she was resolved to stay up here on the cool slopes, and explore the hillside. She sat down, and took out a piece of lembas to nibble for her breakfast, focusing her thoughts on things she could busy herself with today in order to hold the memories at bay. Perhaps find a good piece of pine wood and whittle shapes out of it with her knife. Forage for berries. Hunt for caves. Play with some squirrels. And descend only when all had retired for the night, and the feasting and singing in the house had ceased.

Then she had heard the song.

Not the morning hymn sung by the Imladhrim for Midsummer. A single voice, rising and falling on the breeze. A voice fairer than any nightingale's, so dulcet and heartbreaking that there were no words for it. The piece of lembas fell from her hand. She rose mesmerized to her feet, and went in the direction the voice came from, seeking the singer. As the lilting melody washed through her, there were no words she could discern, Quenya or Sindarin. Yet she heard in it a tale of ancient sorrow. Grief upon layer of grief.

Blood flowing on an evening tide. Swanships burning on a shore. A massacre in a thousand caves. A lament across six thousand years. A wandering soul that has known no peace.

Tears flowed freely down her face as she walked.

And she did not understand how listening to such sorrow—a sorrow infinitely deeper than her own—could heal her own soul.

That the darkness of one who had sinned more greatly than she, one even more deeply acquainted with guilt and remorse, could somehow touch her own darkness and comfort her.

Then golden light spilled into the valley, as the sun rose in its splendour.

And the voice fell silent.

As she heard the faint chorus of the Imladhrim lifted up from the valley below, she was overcome by emptiness and loss.

Over the months that followed, she would climb these slopes again and again, hoping to hear that voice, longing to receive its comfort again.

Longing also to find him and comfort him.

To tell him he was not alone.


	12. Chapter 12: Playing With Fire

One day in early winter, as Maeglin was returning from the smithy, she heard shouts from the front of the house.

She saw Glorfindel vaulting down from the terrace and racing with several others to a group of four hunters, one bearing a body in his arms, running up the path. She broke into a run herself. Glorfindel was crouching on the ground, cradling in his arms a young elf with brown hair.

Her archer.

She saw with lurching heart the bloody, mangled mess that could only have been caused by a warg. The green eyes were open, his face turned towards where she stood, but his _fëa_ already was fading rapidly. She saw in Glorfindel's eyes something she had never seen there before. Futility.

She saw the moment when the archer's _fëa_ left for the Halls of Mandos. For just one moment she thought she saw him look into her eyes, softly.

And the warrior who had seen a thousand deaths in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, who had witnessed the massacre of Gondolin, turned and ran back to her room, and sat on her bed, sobbing for the death of innocence.

* * *

><p>At midnight of that day, Maeglin went down from her bedchamber to the Hall of Fire. She knew who she would find there.<p>

Seven years ago, not long after she had come to Imladris, one of Glorfindel's captains had fallen in an orc hunt.

After dinner, Glorfindel had sat in the Hall of Fire, his chair pulled up close to the hearth, steadily drinking through the night. In the dying flames, he would see the faces of the dead and fallen. All those he had failed to save.

The Imladris household quietly tidied and packed up the hall around him, and left him there with his thoughts and his miruvor. They had seen this happen many times over the past four hundred years, after Elrond's wife Celebrían departed for the Blessed Realm. They all guessed that he blamed himself for not being there to protect her from the orcs who gave her her morgul wound. And for every death that happened in Imladris thereafter. When the flames died, he might pull himself back to his room. If he had fallen asleep in his chair, and the weather was cold, someone would always come and tuck a blanket around him. The next day, he would be back on the training grounds, back to his old self, but pushing his warriors harder than ever.

As Maeglin entered the hall it was dark, the fire fallen to glowing embers licked by dying flames. In the large, deep armchair by the fireplace, she saw the top of the elflord's golden head. He had sunk low into the chair, gazing into the embers, nursing a goblet of miruvor in his hands. She counted three bottles on the table by the chair, and wondered how much he had drunk. The embers threw dim shadows on the walls and ceilings of the hall.

She understood, perhaps better than anyone else in the valley save Elrond, what this pain was like. After the grievous losses suffered by the Houses of the Golden Flower and the Mole in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the prince had spent many bitter, sleepless nights filled with memories of the faces of the fallen, and guilt towards the families they left behind, the provision given by the Lords of Gondolin no comfort for the loss of husbands, fathers, sons. The young prince had been tormented by a sense of failure in leadership. That surely some of those deaths could have been prevented, and more brought home than he did.

The forces of Gondolin had been so untried in battle, their centuries of training and preparation within the bubble of their cloistered valley in the end worth so little, so laughable, when finally tested against the full might of Morgoth's armies.

Her approach was silent and cautious. She could feel his anger and misery heavy in the air.

"What is it?" growled a quiet voice from the depths of the armchair as she drew near. He did not move.

She seated herself on a chair sitting some distance away, as though he was a potentially dangerous animal.

"I want to fight in the guard."

The elflord pulled himself higher in the chair, until she could see dark blue eyes glittering under mussed golden hair.

"Why?"

"To serve and protect. Because I can. I have let others protect me for too many years."

He sat up and pushed his bright hair back from his face, frowning incredulously at her. "You want to leave the smithy to join the guard?"

"Oh no. Never leave the smithy, no. But I can be part of your reserves. Like Camaen is." These received training once a week and were rostered for regular border patrols. "You know I can."

Glorfindel looked thoughtfully into the fire and drained his miruvor. "You will need to train."

"Of course. So you will take me?"

He was silent for a while, then said, "See me tomorrow in the weapons room in the basement. At five in the evening."

"Five?"

"Surely you would prefer to train after your work at the smithy. Or would you be too tired?"

"No," she said rising to her feet. "That would be fine. Thank you, lord." Her use of the word "lord" in her address of him always rang with a little hint of mockery. She dipped a little curtsey and left.

Glorfindel poured himself another cup of miruvor, and continued to gaze into the fading embers.

* * *

><p>Maeglin did not know what to expect when she went to the basement at five. Already that had struck her as strange. No training sessions that she knew of took place in the basement. In the basement lay unused rooms, and weapons storage. And no training sessions that she had heard of took place at five.<p>

She found Glorfindel alone, waiting for her. He picked out for her a practice sword of suitable weight for her size. "It has good reach," he said. Then he led her to an empty training room with a high ceiling. There were stained glass windows very high in one wall, and already the winter daylight was fading in them, and she saw a light snow falling. Two torches sat in brackets on the opposite wall.

"I've never been to this part of the house before," she said.

"We don't normally use it," was all he replied. Their voices echoed off the bare stone walls.

She did not ask him why he had brought her there, alone, at five in the evening, to train in a room no one used, but her eyes were glittering with speculation. His manner was brisk and businesslike. Neither did he begin with basics. Leaning casually against the wall with arms folded, he immediately fired commands at her and put her through the drill. As though she was already one of his guard, and he expected her to know.

Another training room in another time, during the prince of Gondolin's first ten years in the city, under the tutelage of various Lords and the great loremaster Pengolodh. His tutor in swordfighting and unarmed combat was the Lord of the Golden Flower. Glorfindel took the prince through his paces, and smiled approvingly. "You learn fast. But watch your guard. Offensive is good, but never underestimate the important of defence." He demonstrated how quickly he could disarm the prince and hold the point of his sword to Maeglin's throat. "Do not be reckless, my prince."

Nothing irked the prince more about his golden-haired tutor than his easy laughter and joyful mood, even during lessons. One would think, he thought sourly, that the elflord had never had a bad day in his life. The lord of light and sweetness and joy. Maeglin remembered the summer's day his tutor had suddenly said, halfway through training, "It's such a beautiful day. Come, my prince, let's go swimming! We can train tomorrow." And they had ridden out to a waterfall some distance from the city and done just that.

How frivolous.

The Glorfindel who faced Maeglin in basement now was worlds apart. His beautiful face was stern. He was a hard taskmaster, demanding and critical. Underhand thrust right hand, twenty times. Underhand thrust left hand, twenty times. _Watch your footwork placement. _Overhand thrust now. . . twenty each hand. . . Two-handed thrust, five times. . . Repeat_. I told you—watch your footwork_. Keep your point up. Repeat.

Maeglin found her cheeks burning with anger at a sharp reprimand, felt resentment at being forced through her paces again, and again, and again.

But she also respected it.

When the session ended, and he said casually, "Next week, same time?" she replied, "Yes."

As Maeglin ran back to her room to bathe and change for dinner, leaving him to close up the basement, her thoughts were whirling.

She was not a fool. Had she not seen his glances and blushes for the past nine years? She has known for a long time that she was desired. She looked at herself in the mirror as she towelled dry after her bath. How her body had ripened to womanhood over the years.

She had begun to feel stirrings. She had been shocked one day when she had looked at Glorfindel in the smithy and found her eyes lingering over his strong shoulders and the slim, graceful line of his back and his hips. The first time she had ever felt his maleness and been drawn to it. Fascinated, she had then tested herself by spending dinnertime looking at fair ladies, but she had not stirred for any of them for the past nine years, and nothing stirred in her that day either.

She looked at Elladan and Elrohir over dinner with new eyes, and the beautiful captains like Gildor Inglorion sitting around the dinner table. And that was the day she began to think of herself truly as a woman.

And now, the mightiest warrior in Middle Earth, beautiful, and dangerous, and powerful, was asking her to descend with him into the basement once a week to be alone with him for an hour. _I still hate him_, she thought, even as she conceded the attractiveness, which is not something most people would deny.

She trained. She grew stronger and the agility, speed and reflexes of old came back. Not knowing his motives, his intent, made each descent down the stone steps to the basement strangely exciting. Every week, the air was charged between them. They sparred and as they crossed blades she could feel him holding back his strength, leashing his power.

_Why, Lord Glorfindel, am I here in this basement with you? _

_Do you feel what I did for Idril? _

_No. It cannot be. I would not have been able to sustain even an hour with her in this enclosed space, making no move. _

_Why, week after week, do you teach so sternly, invest so much, and keep me in your secret basement_ – and it was obvious it was a secret because neither of them mentioned it to anyone else – _and look at me with such deep and blazing eyes? _

_And do nothing?_

She could not understand this enigma that was the golden-haired seneschal.

And as she wondered what he felt for her, she questioned what she felt for him.

It was not love, for she was certain she hated him still.

It was desire of a sort, but far from the heat she had felt for Idril. More of a fascination.

She sensed his suffering, and of all people she should have understood it and pitied it. But remembering that night in Gondolin—when he had shamed and humiliated her—made her cruel. Sensing his lust, she was curious to see how much she could yank him like a dog on a leash. By letting her tunic be unlaced just two inches lower, and watch him struggle and blush. By letting their thighs brush when their sparring became close and intense, and seeing his sharp intake of breath and using it to attempt to break through his defence.

It was about power.

Over the years, she had come close to liking him. She had thought at times that they could almost be friends. There were moments of ease, when he would be chatting with her and Camaen in the smithy and they might all laugh at a joke. There were interesting discussions over the dinner table at night, when they debated a point heatedly. He never dismissed her opinions as that of a silly elfmaid.

But that did not change who he was and who she was.

The Lord of the Golden Flower and the Lord of the Mole.

Adversaries.

* * *

><p>Glorfindel had broken an important rule when he asked Maeglin to meet him in the basement.<p>

It was the rule that he should never allow himself to be alone with her. Ever.

On that drunken night in the Hall, misery and desire had pushed him to that make that rash decision.

And the next day, he had woken up and realized his folly, but he had not the will to rescind it. Throughout the day, he had struggled—knowing he should go to the smithy, and tell her it was best she take an hour away from her work each week, and train with his warriors.

But he did not.

He had gone down to the basement like one who raises poison to his lips and drinks it knowingly.

Every week, throughout the winter, he had this one hour of torture a week. The first two lessons, he stood back against the wall and barked drill commands at her. After that, he added on the sparring sessions, bringing them into giddy closeness, the sound of their breathing, the soft scuffle of footwork, the ringing of metal on metal. The heat rising in his blood as he held back his strength, kept a tight leash on his power, yet thinking, every time, how easy it would be to send her sword flying, push her against the cold stones on the wall, and take her right there.

He always dismissed her and asked her to leave first, even though their chambers upstairs were side by side.

Firstly, he did not want anyone to see them leave this place together.

Next, he did not want her anywhere him when he approached his bedchamber door. For fear he would just pull her into his room, and throw her on his bed.

Last, it was that he needed time alone to recover from the agony of what he had endured that one hour, struggling to protect her from himself.

Yet he would not give it up. At the end of every session he said the same words:

"See you next week."

* * *

><p>And so they circled and sparred, Maeglin's skin prickling at the power coming from him. Tightly reined. So dangerous.<p>

_". . .your father was wild and dangerous and beautiful," Aredhel had said to young Maeglin as she reclined on her seat, quite drunk. The bruise on her cheekbone had swelled and darkened. As had her eye. She poured herself another cup of wine. _

_"Ammë," young Maeglin protested, squirming, really not wanting to hear. "Go to bed and rest. Please."_

Sometimes as they crossed swords, steel locked on steel, Maeglin thought of how easily he could send that sword flying if he wished. Pull her to the floor and have his way with her.

_"I wanted him as much as he wanted me, but I fought him. I wanted his brute strength. His darkness. His forcefulness." Aredhel's voice was a little slurred, but her silver-grey eyes glinted wickedly. "I did not fear him."_

What would Maeglin do if he did? Would she fight? Would she scream?

_"One day you will feel it." _

Or did she want him to? To know how it would feel?

_"One day you will understand."_

It was nothing to do with love. She was no silly maid hankering for romance or promises in the night. She was done with the poison and prison of love. Her body was young, and it desired. She would use him as he used her. If she could bring the mightiest warrior in Ennor to his knees, have him grovel at her feet, would she not do it? Take pleasure in using him and then scorning him?

It could be the sweetest revenge.

She looked at his lips and began to wonder how they would feel. If they would be as warm and soft as they looked. As Idril's had been. How they would taste.

He sent her blade flying. It landed with a clatter on the hard stones, echoing.

She saw his eyes upon her, burning. He took a step towards her. She waited, heart racing, not breathing.

He went to where her sword lay, flipped it over to her using his blade, and said sternly, "Concentrate."

As spring came and the niphredil began to bloom, she asked the question he had dreaded.

"When can I go out with the guards?" she said as they sparred.

"You are not ready."

"But I think I already fight as well as a number of them." A pretence at modesty. She knew she was better than many of them.

_"I said, you are not ready!"_

And with white fire flashing in his eyes, he crossed blades with her so fiercely that she was shocked, driven backwards, pushed back against the wall, the breath knocked out of her as her back hit the hard, cold stone. Over the locked blades their faces were very close. Their eyes met and she saw the wildness in his.

Maeglin's heart was hammering, but not from fear. _He is going to kiss me or kill me_, she thought. She was lightheaded from the strange ecstasy of excitement in her blood. They were both holding their breaths as they looked into each other's eyes. And at each other's lips.

After what felt like an eternity, he backed off.

"Had I been an orc, you would be dead," he said rather curtly. "You don't realize how easy I have been on you."

"Don't be then! Train me for real. Stop treating me like a weak maiden," she said sharply, her pride stung.

"That is enough for today," he said quietly.

Dazed with what felt like disappointment, she put away her sword. As she left, he said, not looking at her, "See you next week."


	13. Chapter 13: Exposed

Worrying reports of Glorfindel had been reaching Elrond's ears for a while. Erestor complained the seneschal had not submitted reports since midwinter. Elladan and Elrohir said they felt something was wrong with him, he was not acting himself. It was true, thought Elrond. Glorfindel was laughing a lot less, and looked troubled. Apart from the reports, he attended to his other duties perfectly well, but at dinner Elrond noticed how dreamy and distracted he seemed. Especially on a certain day of the week.

So on that day, he decided to follow his seneschal to see what he might be up to.

Shortly before five, he saw Glorfindel go from the training rooms on the first level, having just dismissed his warriors, and disappear down the stairs to the basement. Just after that, before Elrond could head towards the steps himself, the lovely maiden Lómiel, apprentice to the smith, came running and disappeared down the steps as well.

Elrond, astonished, tried not to jump to conclusions and failed.

Just what would he do if he went down those steps and found his seneschal in a compromising position with an underaged elfmaid?

It was with great relief, therefore, that his elven ears heard the sound of swordplay ringing from behind the heavy wooden door of the spare training room. He opened it, and saw two brief seconds of skilled sparring before Glorfindel spun around in shock and stared at Elrond in the doorway.

Guilt and shame written all over his fair face.

Lómiel, not looking guilty at all, bowed as she held her sword.

"Ah, Lord Glorfindel. So sorry to interrupt your training, but I was looking for you." Elrond entered. "Do carry on. You don't mind if I observe your training, do you? We can talk after this."

* * *

><p>In his study, Elrond stared at his seneschal as though the golden-haired warrior had completely lost his mind.<p>

"So let me get this clear. You are telling me that the man who tried to kill my father and grandfather is in my house, in the guise of an elfmaid, and you are _giving him deadly weapons and training him to kill_?"

"It sounds terrible when you put it that way. Except it is not _him_ anymore—not really. This is a young maiden. She needs to be trained to protect herself."

"From what I saw earlier, she is more than proficient in that. And why train her _yourself_? _Alone_? And not with the rest of the guard? There is no way to justify that. At all. And you still have not addressed the key issue. If she is indeed who you think she is—and I think that is highly improbable—why did you not come to me with it earlier?"

"As you have said, it was highly improbable. I needed to make sure of it myself before I mentioned it. Once I was certain, I also saw that she was not a security risk. Yes, she still has a bit of a temper. But she has fit in well. And she has not and would not hurt anyone. I didn't see a need to mention anything to you. She gets along well with Camaen. The twins like her. So does Lindir. Even Erestor gets along with her. _You_ certainly have not observed anything in her behaviour to worry about, have you?"

"And why are you training her alone?" asked Elrond slowly. "And in secret?"

Glorfindel was silent.

Elrond sighed. "She seems to be a good fighter. So are you sending her out on patrols soon?"

"Well, I think she needs a bit longer before she goes out. I don't think she's ready yet."

"I saw her fight just now, Glorfindel! She is a warrior and she is as good as any in the guard."

"She's reckless, Elrond! She will get herself killed."

The Lord of Imladris looked in exasperation and concern at his seneschal. "I never thought I would see the day you are so besotted with a maiden that your brains get scrambled."

"Besotted? Me?" sputtered Glorfindel, turning red. "What do you take me for? She is an _underaged babe_, for Eru's sake! Absolute rubbish! And this is _Maeglin Lómion_. He _hates_ me. We never got along. We absolutely _detest_ each other."

Elrond looked at his seneschal compassionately and said nothing for a while. "How long has it been like this?"

Giving up all pretence, Glorfindel sank back in his chair and looked at the edge of Elrond's desk with tormented eyes. "Nine years."

Elrond stood stunned for a while. Then he sat at a desk, pulled paper to himself and began to write. At the sound of scribbling, Glorfindel lifted his head.

"You are going away," said Elrond firmly. "First, to Lothlorien, bearing gifts for Arwen and the Lady Galadriel."

"Elladan and Elrohir were to go! They were looking forward to it."

"I have other things for them to do." Such as taking over the seneschal's duties for a year, he thought. "And you need to have a long rest."

"A long rest—Lord Elrond—that is the _worst_ thing that you could possibly do to me. I _cannot_ just recline on banks of elanor watching the mellyrn bloom. I need to be _busy_. I need to _work_—"

"Oh, do not worry. You shall work." Elrond rolled up the slip of paper, went to the window, and sent it off tied to the leg of a winged messenger. Sitting down again, Elrond continued writing. "You will be in Lorien about three months," he said. "At the end of summer you will depart for Mirkwood and Dale to offer your expertise in a revamp of their defences."

"Elrond—_no_! Please. I cannot be away from here for so long," pleaded the warrior. "I _cannot_."

"It is long overdue. They have been requesting this for some time now. You will probably be there by mid-autumn, which will necessitate your wintering in Mirkwood. You may leave for Imladris in late spring." He sent off another bird. "There. All settled."

"Winter in Mirkwood with Thranduil. Why don't you just kill me right now."

"Enjoy the Dorwinion wine. Kill a few spiders if you get bored. Visit the dwarves at Erebor to annoy them a little—or tell them your balrog story. For some reason, the dwarves always seem to enjoy that." Elrond smiled at the warrior, whose blue eyes were huge and tragic in his stricken face. "As your lord, your friend, and your physician, I am telling you—go away. Take time to sort things out. Have a chat with Lady Galadriel. Rest. You will come back with a better perspective on things." He picked up his pen again. "Well, you'd better start packing. You leave tomorrow."

Glorfindel rose slowly to his feet in a daze, and made his way to the door.

"Oh, and I would not drink too much of Thranduil's Dorwinion if I were you," said Elrond as he wrote. "In your state, you are likely to find yourself uttering things that you will regret deeply."


	14. Chapter 14: A Question Answered

Glorfindel sat at the foot of a mallorn tree on the bank of a stream that was covered with elanor, chin on hand, and looked glumly into space. He had been in Lothlórien for three days now, and the Galadhrim, who were all familiar with him, had never seen him this way before. So they had worked at cheering him up. If Haldir was not trying to get him to go for a feast with dancing, or Arwen getting him to walk in the forest with her, or Lady Galadriel getting him to dine with her and Celeborn, it was elfmaids leaping out at him from behind every tree. He was beginning to wonder exactly what Elrond had written in that note to Lady Galadriel.

_Overworked. . . losing his mind. . . affair of the heart. . . very bad business. . . strict rest cure prescribed. . . needs relaxation. . . plenty of elfmaids. . ._

Glorfindel sighed as he imagined it.

Lady Galadriel had never seen her favourite balrog slayer mope before, which was why she now sought him out as he sat by the stream.

"_Pityo_, what ails you? You are not yourself at all," she said, going straight to the point. Since his return to Ennor, he had discovered that Galadriel was the only one in all Arda besides Idril who still called him "little one".

"Lady, may I ask you a question?"

She looked into his face thoughtfully.

"Walk with me, _pityo_."

As a child, he remembered her visiting Nevrast, sometimes alone, sometimes with her grave lord Celeborn. She would come to visit her cousin Turgon, and bring the child little gifts and toys from Doriath. Even as a child, he had looked at her long flowing golden hair, so like his own. More radiant and lustrous than his, certainly, and wavier in texture, but it was that same rare, rich shade of gold that he had never seen on anyone else. She would take his tiny hand in her long, slender one and they would walk by the sea, he prattling incessantly, and she listening with a laugh and a smile. At times he had looked at her with his little brow furrowed, deep in thought.

_Are you my amil?_

But the question had always died in his mind before he could ask. She would smile into his eyes, and he would forget he had meant to ask it. And only after she had departed again for Doriath might he think of it again.

On this night in the golden wood, as the lady and the warrior walked on a bridge over the stream, many would have been dazzled at the vision of their combined beauty. Both were dressed in shining white, and the resplendence of their golden hair shimmered in the shade of the vast, overarching trees. He was just two fingers' width taller than her. It would be easy for onlookers to see them as mother and son, or sister and brother.

She seated herself on a carved wooden bench by the stream and waited for him to speak, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

With a sigh, Glorfindel leaned on a mallorn trunk.

"Lady Galadriel, why do I feel that you know what I'm going to say before I say it?"

"Ask freely, Lord Glorfindel. I shall answer you."

He paused, looking into the infinite depths of those gray eyes.

"Lady, do you know who I really am? Where I come from?"

She tilted her head and her brilliant, enigmatic gaze held him. "Why now?" she asked in measured tones.

He was silent, and let her take his answer from his eyes.

She smiled and her eyes laughed. "You must let me meet her sometime."

He blushed and dropped his gaze.

"It may not be as hopeless as you think. Your deeds speak far louder than any bloodline does. Who you are, Glorfindel, has proven to be far more than the sum of your parents and their lineage."

"She cares nothing for my deeds. Nor for lineage," he said. "But it is for myself that I ask. I need to know. Who are my parents, Lady Galadriel?"

Moving her heavy skirts aside, she patted the bench next to her. "Sit with me."

Holding his blue eyes with her gaze, she looked back to a time almost seven millennia ago, when she had been young.

* * *

><p>Early in the First Age, when the sun was young, a brother and sister walked under the towering trees of Doriath in the cool autumn air. They were outsiders there, the style of their riding clothes and golden hair marking them apart from the Sindarin. As guests of their kinsman, King Elu Thingol, they had been made to feel very welcome. Galadriel had now been staying there for a month, and Finrod, who had been travelling Beleriand, had just arrived to join her and their other brothers. As he told her of the strange peoples he had met, his voice suddenly trailed away and his steps faltered next to hers. Gazing into the distance, Finrod saw pale white-gold hair gleaming in the shadows of the great trees, crossing a bridge.<p>

"Findaráto. . ." Galadriel shook her head warningly and reached out her hand for his sleeve. But he was gone, running towards the bridge, his hair flying in the wind.

_Amarië, _he was calling, the note of yearning in his voice breaking his sister's heart. _Amarië arimelda! My heart. . ._

The figure turned to face him, hand gracefully resting on the rails of the bridge. Azure eyes with dark lashes looked at him, and a smile blossomed on her face.

Already he had come to a stop, his face fallen and flushed with embarrassment. Now it was easy for him to tell that the shape of the maiden's eyes and the line of her nose and jaw were different, so different, from his beloved, and she was taller by half a head. The bewitching beauty before him resembled Amarië in striking ways: the same pale gold hair, falling like silk to her hips. Eyes the same shade of azure blue, with dark eyelashes and eyebrows. Her heart-shaped face lit with a radiant smile as her eyes lingered on the tall, golden-haired Noldorin prince.

He bowed. "I beg your pardon, maiden," he said in Sindarin. "I mistook you for someone I know."

"It is my loss not to be her whom you seek. I am saddened to have disappointed you, my lord prince," she replied, her voice light and sweet. A voice that sent shivers down the spine of a dark-haired elflord who approached them now, dressed in fine robes of deep purple. Oropher was a tall, dashing Sindarin elflord with piercing grey eyes, and at the moment his gaze was piercing the golden-haired prince with a glare.

Galadriel was at Finrod's elbow. "Finrod, this is Rîlel, the sister-daughter of Celeborn," she said in Sindarin. Finrod bowed again and murmured a courtesy, and Rîlel dropped a deep curtsey. The darkhaired elflord stood behind her on the bridge.

"Lord Oropher," Galadriel inclined her head gracefully to the newcomer. "This is my brother Finrod."

"The stars shine on our meeting," said Oropher with a courtly bow, his voice deep and mellifluous. His lips smiled, but his eyes glinted dangerously as he looked on the golden-haired prince. Rîlel, who had been gazing spellbound at Finrod, slid her eyes to look at the Sindarin lord and bit her lip.

Over the next week, Finrod tried his best to evade the white-gold-haired beauty with the merry laugh, but she seemed to dog him at every turn. She would come by dancing and laughing with her friends in the gardens when he went forth for a stroll. She would chance to pass him in the corridors outside his chambers suspiciously often, glancing at him coquettishly from under long, dark lashes, and laughing musically like a mountain brook at his greeting. When he trained with the warriors of Doriath, she would be watching from a balcony above. And every time he sought the company of Galadriel, Rîlel would be one of the ladies in attendance and position herself close to his side. He was beginning to be disturbed by it, no less than Oropher, who always seemed to be a few steps behind Rîlel, looking at the beauty with hurt, accusing eyes.

"I shall depart tomorrow, Artanis," Finrod said to Galadriel one day in mid-autumn, as they sat looking out at the gardens. A clattering sound made them turn. Rîlel had dropped a tray and red wine stained the floor. She flushed and murmured an apology for her clumsiness. Two other maidens hastened to her aid. _But it is your begetting day, _Galadriel reproved him in their thoughts. _Stay one more day with me. I had plans for you._

_Forgive me, Artanis… it is just another day to me. It is nothing. And celebrating it brings only pain._

"And when do you think to return?" Galadriel sighed, feeling already the sadness of separation from her dearest kin. Sounds of cups being set back on a tray and being carried away.

"I know not," he said, gazing into the depths of the forest outside. "I travel west."

She knew the explorer's wanderlust that had possessed him the last decade since they had arrived in Beleriand. He travelled alone, charting territories unknown to the Noldor. The coastlines. The deep forests and mountain regions. Always he returned, his clothes and cloak threadbare, looking like a wild laiquendi save for the gold of his hair, even once with a dwarven bead in his hair. He would bear to the librarians of Doriath detailed maps drawn by his own hand and notes on new languages and cultures and animals encountered, of regions perhaps no Eldar had wandered before. Scribes would make copies of them and scholars would study them.

This restlessness… this sense of rootlessness and incompleteness. Her heart ached for him.

She walked to him and laid her hand on his shoulder, and rested her side of her golden head against his own. His arm slipped around her shoulders, and brother and sister watched as the sun faded and the twinkling of a thousand golden lights appeared in the trees.

_We will celebrate tonight, _she told him.

They dined under the trees that evening, an atmosphere of gaiety filling the air. Rîlel sang like a sweet nightingale, and received Finrod's courteous smile and applause. She and the other maidens (for they all were fond of him), plied him with plates of delicacies all evening, and kept his goblet full of wine.

"Enough," laughed Finrod in protest, as Rîlel poured another goblet of wine for him. "I can eat and drink no more."

"Oh, just one more, my lord prince," pleaded Rîlel. "It is a special wine… from the warm valleys of Ossiriand." She continued to hold it out to him.

Gallantly, he took it and drained it. Oropher glowered at the back of his golden head.

He almost stumbled next to Galadriel as he reached the door of Galadriel's chamber. "Findarato! If I didn't know you better, I'd say that you were drunk."

"I must be losing my touch, Artanis. My head is feeling rather heavy." And he stifled a yawn.

"It is a good thing your chamber is next to mine. Let me escort you." She smiled. At his door, she slipped something into his hand. "My gift. It will warn you whenever dangers approach." The knife was slim and deadly, a thing of beauty and strength.

"Stay safe, beloved." She kissed his brow. She knew he had a habit of disappearing early before dawn.

Galadriel woke feeling a wrongness in her spirit. A deep unease.

It persisted as she dressed her hair. She called to Aelin, the maiden who had just brought in her breakfast tray. "Aelin. Could you see if Lord Finrod has departed?"

The maiden returned shortly. "No one has seen him this morning, lady. And there is no answer at his door."

"And where is Rîlel?" asked Galadriel nonchalantly.

No one had seen her.

Galadriel ate a few morsels and swallowed her tea and left the room. Even as she laid her hand on the heavy wood of Finrod's door, she knew he was _there_.

"Findaráto. It is I." There was no sound. She pushed against the door and it opened. She took in the rumpled bedclothes, and the mane of gold hair falling over the edge of the bed. "Findaráto!" she shook the bare shoulder and was rewarded with a gentle snore. _He never snores! _He was lying on his front, his face half buried in his pillow. His eyes were shut. _Shut_! The long dark-gold lashes lay still against his fair cheek. In sleep, the eldest son of Finarfin looked impossibly young. And vulnerable. "Oh, Findaráto," sighed the youngest child of Finarfin as she smoothed the curtain of hair back from her eldest brother's face, as a mother would.

She smelled on his breath the wine of the previous night. And something else. She breathed the familiar scent of his skin, and picked up another scent that made her grey eyes flash steel and her mouth tighten.

"Rîlel …" she hissed.

She swept down the hallway, her face stern, and all who saw her cleared a path for her.

Orodreth had confirmed what she knew. That the prince had been drugged. He would wake, Orodreth believed, with little memory of anything that had happened, and hopefully not more than a heavy head.

_Happy begetting day, dear brother. . ._

White robes sweeping the floor behind her, Galadriel saw her prey dart nervously through the great doors of the Menegroth library and followed.

The library was not a place Rîlel frequented, and she soon found herself cornered in the poetry section, shrinking back in terror against the dark wooden shelves laden with books and scrolls.

Galadriel had quickly ascertained that they were alone, but she took care not to raise her voice.

"_Wretched girl. What have you done?_" The eyes and voice of the shining white lady were so terrible in her barely suppressed fury that Rîlel could not even find voice to answer. A faint squeak came from her parted lips, and no more. Galadriel saw the way she held herself, the hand gathering the folds of her skirt, laid protectively on her belly.

_Happy begetting day. . ._

"You are a fool," Galadriel said in a quiet voice. "Did you think to deceive your way into his love this way? To make him wed you? You know nothing of him, or of love. He is _promised_. His heart will beat for no other till the end of all things."

"I love him," came the tiny whisper from a dry mouth.

"Do you know how many lives you may have ruined with your rash act, you selfish, thoughtless girl?" Galadriel pursued. "Your own. Have you not seen Lord Oropher's eyes on you? He is noble, and he loves you. Passionately. But do you think in his pride he or any other lord in Doriath would ever court you again once your shame is known? Think of what you have thrown away for one night of folly. And be sure you have ruined Oropher's. Never will he look at another as he has looked on you. He will long for you but the thought of you will be poison to him. The babe's. What legacy will this child have, when it is born of trickery and deceit? Your family. What shame have you brought on them? On your _noble guardian_?" She choked with rage. "Findaráto's. He would marry you rather than dishonour you. He would live an empty shell of himself for the rest of his years, pining for another. Can you live like that? Is it love to hurt what you desire most? Don't you _dare_ speak to me of love."

Galadriel sensed him behind her before he spoke, and a shiver passed through her body. "Lady Nerwen Artanis is right, Rîlel my sister-daughter. You are a child and know naught yet of what love is." The low mellifluous voice caused Galadriel's heart to skip a beat.

"Lord Celeborn," she said calmly, without turning.

At the sight of her guardian, the girl collapsed. "Forgive me," she wept in guilt and shame. "Forgive me. . ."

The white lady and silver-haired lord went to her and wrapped their arms around her.

Galadriel reached out with her _fëa_ to that little light beginning to flutter in the Sindarin _elleth's_ belly, feeling a warm, golden, glorious melody beginning to be sung. The latest light to burn in the line of Finwë.

Celeborn comforted his ward, the only child of his dead sister.

The lord and lady led the girl who was a maid no more to a chair and looked at each other over her head.

"There is a way," said Celeborn, looking deep into her grey eyes, then speaking into her mind. _It is not a path I relish taking, my love. But it will protect all those you have named, restoring to them their future. _

* * *

><p>Finrod woke at noon with a splitting headache and a conviction that he would never drink Ossiriand wine again. "Ohhh… tell the oliphaunts to stop dancing on my head," he groaned.<p>

"Here, drink this." Orodreth held the cup to his lips for him.

Removing the empty cup, Orodreth laid a cold herbal compress on the prince's brow. Finrod obediently held the compress to his head and gazed at his youngest brother.

"Three hundred years of drinking, and I finally find the one cup of wine that does me in."

"One cup of wine with something extra added to it."

"What?" Finrod frowned.

"It's the fashion to add spiced herbs to wine in Doriath, but it can be a dicey practice if you don't know what you're doing," Orodreth explained. "Last night, we guess that one herb must have been confused with another and ended up in the draught by mistake. Very potent drug. Very foolish elf maidens. But you should be fine by tomorrow morning."

Finrod was silent. "That would explain the dreams I had. I had the most vivid dream…" And he closed his eyes with a look of bliss.

* * *

><p>Galadriel looked with pleasure at the small, bright elfling running along the shoreline, his feet barely touching the sand. His hair streamed bright, rich gold in the morning sun, and his joyful, innocent laugh warmed his aunt's heart. A tiny little piece of Finrod. He took a flying leap into Ecthelion's arms, almost knocking the wind out of the tall, dark-haired and silver-eyed elflord for a moment. They boarded a ship, the elven lords casting off the moorings as they headed out to the centre of the harbour.<p>

Twelve years had passed by in the blink of an eye, and the child had grown, almost reaching her hip, knowing how to charm her with huge, innocent eyes and chubby little cheeks, and how to make her laugh with his cheeky grin and childish prattle. He could chatter incessantly in both Quenya and Sindarin, and he was already a notorious little prankster.

The story woven around the child was that of a foundling, swaddled in Noldorin cloth from Valinor, mysteriously left on the steps of Turgon's house in Vinyamar. Idril had taken him in and cared for him.

"He never stays still," said Idril, smiling indulgently.

Turgon and Galadriel exchanged glances. They had never spoken of it. He had never asked. She had never told. "He looks much as Findaráto did at that age," said Turgon.

Glorfindel had wide violet-blue eyes fringed with dark lashes, but everything else, _everything_ – was Finrod.

"And he is fearless," Turgon added. "And very swift."

Swarming quickly to the top of a mastpole, heedless of Ecthelion's sharp reprimand, the tiny daredevil hurled himself into space and plunged down into the sparkling waves.

Idril ran forward with a startled cry, and both she and Ecthelion plunged into the water, homing in on the spot where the tiny elfling had disappeared.

The tiny golden head surfaced a few heartstopping seconds later, whooping in delight.

"But we are doing our best to keep him alive," Turgon said with a smile.

_"You wait till I get my hands on you, you little monkey!" _

_"You could have been killed!"_

_"Stop laughing, Egalmoth! It's your turn to babysit tomorrow."_

Turgon took his leave, and Celeborn and Galadriel walked on a while in silence, listening to the thunder of the waves beyond the sheltered harbour, the relentless power of Ulmo's voice.

"Am I wrong to keep the child from him?" she asked. "Do you think he would ever forgive me for not letting him know?"

"He will always forgive you. And remember what he told you this spring."

Finrod had grimly spoken a dark prophecy: of a vow to be fulfilled, of a kingdom to be left without an heir, of a need to be free to walk into the shadows of his destiny. She would leave him free to fulfil his vows. Free of ties. Free of knowledge.

"And of this child's destiny," Celeborn said softly. "What do you see?"

She did not answer.

_Fire. _

_Blood. _

_Darkness. _

Her eyes grew a little moist.

Celeborn wrapped his arms around her, and she let herself be vulnerable to him. As she could be with only him. And no other.

* * *

><p>Glorfindel was silent, taking it all in. His relief at not being Turgon's son was enormous. The terrible burden that had weighed on him for the past year, almost costing him his sanity, fell away.<p>

The same hair, the same beauty, Galadriel thought, looking at him. The same strength in the shoulders, the long limbs, slender build and cat-like grace.

Finrod the beloved. He and she were the eldest and youngest children of Finarfin. They had been like twins born fifty years apart, completing each other's sentences and sharing each other's thoughts, and she missed him so much still. What she had done, she had done for love of him.

"So. . . he still does not know I exist?"

"No. And I wonder how easily he will forgive me for keeping you from him." She took his chin in her hand and gazed into his eyes. "But he would be very proud of you, _pityo_. As am I."

Glorfindel grinned bashfully.

"What happened to my mother? Did she marry Oropher?"

Galadriel laughed. "Indeed. Bearing you made her a wiser and stronger _elleth_, and Oropher should have thanked you for it."

More solemnly, she added. "It was not easy for her to give you up. But she understood that it was for your good, and her own." She paused. "I knew this day would eventually come. I feared that you might blame me for all that you lost, _pityo_. For what your life might have been had Findarato acknowledged you as his own, and married your mother. For the loss of your birthright." And for the shame of being a child out of wedlock.

_Child of sin_. Yet that child had been favoured and chosen by Eru himself for this mission to the mortal lands, though at times she wondered if it were blessing or curse.

She had also wondered at times, over the years, if Glorfindel had been at Nargothrond to hold the throne after his father's death, how different the history of the Noldor in Beleriand might have been.

Glorfindel himself was thinking of his happy and carefree childhood at Nevrast by the sea, with Idril and Ecthelion watching over him, and the beautiful, brilliant, glorious years of Gondolin, even though they had ended in flames and a dark chasm.

He was Laurëfindel, the child of Findaráto, son of Arafinwë. _Úcarehína_. The word was ugly. But his sire had been one of noblest of the Noldor, and one of his heroes from boyhood. The word meant little to him. Pride in his paternity filled his heart with joy.

"I was meant to serve as a warrior. I was never meant to be a king. I wouldn't have had my life any other way. And I thank you from my heart for it, father-sister Lady Artanis."

With a smile, she leaned forward, and planted a kiss on his brow.

"I seem to have acquired a lot of relatives, all of a sudden," he said. It made his mind spin.

"Indeed you have. And one day, when the time is right, I shall introduce you to them all. Gladly."

As they got up and walked on, a sudden thought occurred to him. "Wait - so _Thranduil_ is my _brother_?"

Her eyes sparkled with mischief as they met his.

The bubble of mirth could not be contained, and the golden elflord laughed long and loud for the first time since he arrived at the golden wood. The Lady Galadriel, wise and terrible, took the arm of her nephew and laughed with him. And all the Galadhrim who saw them were filled with wonder.


	15. Chapter 15: The High Prince

Let us go back a few thousand years to a harbour on Tol Eressëa.

A crowd has gathered to watch a white ship depart. This is unusual, for they gather only when one arrives. But today something altogether unprecedented for the past one thousand two hundred years has happened. There is a passenger for the mortal lands.

Not just a passenger, but one of the rebodied from the Halls of Mandos. At this time, the rebodied in Valinor are not numerous, and they are objects of the greatest interest, because of their dark and tragic tales of what transpired across the sea in the dreadful wars for three jewels. This one, especially, inspires curiosity. For all have now heard of the fall of Gondolin and the golden-haired hero who fell slaying the greatest of balrogs. Yet strangely, almost no one has seen him over the past millennium that he has dwelt in Valinor. The aura of mystery that shrouds him has brought many here. And if loud murmurs and speculations have broken out as they look on his fair face, Olórin with a wave of his hand has dulled them so that they reach not the ears of the golden-haired balrog slayer as he embarks.

The white ship begins to pull away from the dock, and the hero of Gondolin stands on the deck waving at ones so dear to him on the shore, the ones he had died to save.

The crowd parts before the High Prince of the Noldor, the son of High King Arafinwë, who is staring at the passenger aboard the ship like a man in a dream.

Glorfindel has eyes for none but the faces of his loved ones. Idril. Eärendil. Voronwë. He is smiling, and his golden hair flows streaming in the sea breeze, bright in the morning sun.

On the shore, his hair the same rich, rare shade of gold—both deep and bright—the erstwhile King of Nargothrond, the rebodied slayer of the great werewolf of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, stares at the departing hero like a starving man.

For Finrod Felagund, Findaráto Ingoldo of the Noldor has had two heartaches in this land of bliss since his rebodiment.

One, that he alone of his siblings remains. His brothers still dwell with Mandos and his beloved sister is still across the great sea.

The second, his deep yearning for a child.

He has always loved children. As the eldest child of Arafinwë, he had half-raised his three brothers and his sister, had always dreamed of having as many children of his own as Fëanor did. But after a millennium, he and his lovely wife Amarië have had none, and though his passion and love for her are diminished not one whit, that ache for a child, his child, has remained, eating at him deep within.

He takes one look at the golden-haired, bright-faced elf on board the ship, pulling away from shore, pulling away from him, and gasps like one struck through with a spear.

With a lurching shock, he _knows_.

His heart racing, hardly knowing what he is thinking, he steps forward and would have plunged into the waves but for the maia Olórin who bars his way with one strong arm. "Prince Findaráto ," says Olorin, shaking his head gently and looking at him with compassion.

"How can this be?" cries the dazed prince, his eyes still on the ship vanishing into the horizon. "By Eru, _how can this be?"_

The crowds are looking at him with curiosity and compassion, for he is much beloved among them. Idril walks slowly across to her uncle, seeing, as she has always seen, how her foster son and her uncle are almost mirrors of each other. Even the way Findaráto's face is flushed now is exactly how Glorfindel flushes whenever embarrassed or confused.

She has kept silent and fiercely quelled all rumours for the last two thousand years, protecting both her foster son and her kinsman from scandal, because she has always known her uncle to be the most noble and honourable of the Noldor, and yet she knew him to be unmarried in the mortal lands. She still has no answers for this mystery that is Glorfindel. She senses that he has none too.

Finrod cannot take his eyes from the ship till the white speck has vanished from elven eyes over the curve of the horizon.

Had he only known, had he only seen earlier, he would not have let the ship leave, would not have let the Valar themselves take his child from him without a fight.

_I have a son. I have lost him in the moment that I found him._

He turns to look into the sweet, sad eyes of his niece, Idril.

"Let me tell you about him, _tyenya_ Findaráto," she says, and reaches out her hand to him.


	16. Chapter 16: The Woodland King

Glorfindel stifled an impulse to roll his eyes as he stepped into the chamber where Thranduil received him.

Seated on a couch by a large arched window, beyond which one could see great trees clothed in rich autumn foliage and the forest river running, King Thranduil of Mirkwood was seated, his body angled away from the elflord of Imladris, conducting some business.

A beautiful wood elf with russet hair was besides her king, and both of them, eyes closed, were involved in some very slow, deep, lingering kisses.

The fair-haired king raised one hand elegantly to signal his awareness of the elflord's presence, and continued his exploration of the beauty's lips.

Glorfindel knew that Thranduil had lost his queen some eight hundred years ago, leaving him with a small princeling to raise on his own. He had loved her passionately, had never recovered from it, had become icier, haughtier, wrapping round his grief with his pride.

The greatest culture shock Glorfindel always experienced when stepping into the Woodland realm was the blatant sexuality of the sylvan elves, and he had travelled the length and breadth of Middle Earth. He had been shocked to the core of his conservative High Elven soul when he attended his first woodland feast. To be sure, once these Avari found the special one for them, their marital relationships were as exclusive and tightly binding as any other among the Eldar, but until then, they enjoyed as many dalliances as they wished. Because of that, he always found his trips here rather stressful. He always had to search his chamber and lock his door before retiring for the night.

Two cultures existed here, side by side. The Sindarin High Elven culture of the court, and the sylvan culture outside it, and he had always assumed that there was no crossing over the line by either side.

Until a visit he made a century ago, when he had stumbled upon Thranduil similarly engaged in a rather amorous activity on the balcony of his throne room.

Looking at his half-brother with new eyes, Glorfindel wondered if what Thranduil felt for the dead Lothuial was as intense as what he felt for Maeglin, since they were both sons of the wild and sensual Rîlel of Doriath. He shuddered at the thought of losing Maeglin to death; but would the need and hunger, would the heat he felt for her end if she passed to Mandos?

And what if it did not.

If the elven king found, in the arms of a fair sylvan maid, the only thing that could assuage his grief and need—however briefly—who was he to judge, knowing now the agony of such need? There existed not a wine nor miruvor in the realm of Middle Earth that could make Thranduil drunk enough to grant him the mercy of a moment's oblivion. And here in his realm there were any number of fair maids lining up for the privilege of pleasuring their beautiful king, if only for a season. They would move on thereafter to bind themselves eternally to sylvan mates, none of whom would mind taking a bride from the bed of the king himself.

Glorfindel wondered what Legolas Thranduilion thought of all this. There was such an air of innocence about the boy that one wondered if he was even aware of his ada's trysts. Maybe he spent so much time roaming the woods slaying spiders that he was hardly ever around to observe what Glorfindel was now seeing.

Sometimes, looking at Legolas, Glorfindel remembered Thranduil as he had been. Back in the days when he was Prince Thranduil, and they had been friends when he visited the Greenwood or the prince came to Imladris.

Then had come the Last Alliance, the long march down the Anduin River, and the bitter Battle of Dagorlad. Glorfindel himself had gone in with the Imladhrim to rescue Thranduil, and the balrog slayer had borne the fatally wounded Oropher off the battlefield. He remembered the fair head of the prince bent over the body of Oropher his father, weeping like a brokenhearted child. He had risen to his feet a king. As Glorfindel saw Thranduil's pale, bleak face and saw hard steel enter his eyes, he knew the prince he had known had vanished forever.

Then Lothuial's loss, eight hundred years ago, had sent the ice into his heart.

Glorfindel's visits to Mirkwood had become increasingly painful because nothing he tried to say or do could resurrect the friendship they once had. Thranduil kept it impersonal, detached, and his old friend was held at an arm's length. Generally, Thranduil annoyed Glorfindel with his aloofness and more-royal-than-thouness, and Glorfindel annoyed Thranduil by getting Legolas into all manner of adventures and misadventures when he visited. But the fun did the boy so much good, thought Glorfindel, stifling a grin at the thought, already planning in his head what they could do the next day.

Occasionally there were moments of highhandedness from the King that came close to insult. Such as now, as the King kept the mighty warrior from Imladris standing and waiting like a lackey.

But Glorfindel was in a forgiving mood that day and even fascinated by the scene before him.

He tilted his head to one side and observed that Thranduil seemed exceptionally skilful at kissing. A proficiency that probably came from much experience. He was imagining himself kissing Maeglin the same way when Thranduil rose languidly from his couch and dismissed the beauty with a wave of his hand. She left reluctantly, her eyes lingering on her monarch as she departed.

As they discussed fortifications and the preparations that would be needed in the event, however slim, of a full-on assault by Mordor on Mirkwood, Glorfindel thought he saw the shadow of loneliness behind the piercing blue eyes of the King. And the warrior felt a surge of protectiveness and tenderness towards his little brother.

And more empathy than he might have imagined he could have felt just ten years ago.


	17. Chapter 17: Homecoming

It was a warm, golden midsummer eve's morning when Asfaloth and Glorfindel rode into Imladris. It was good to be home. Several of the household whom they met along the way hailed him enthusiastically and welcomed him back warmly. After settling Asfaloth back in his stable stall, Glorfindel went next door looking for the one face he wished most to see.

He heard Elrohir's voice before he saw them, and heard her laugh. Then he rounded the corner of the stables and he saw them.

Maeglin was standing at an anvil—right where Camaen normally worked, and Camaen was nowhere to be seen at the forge. She was shaping a piece of plate armour on it, and the golden morning light glinted off the steel and off her glossy black hair. Glorfindel drank in the sight of her, overwhelmed by longing. She was wearing a blue, sleeveless tunic, and he could see what lean, muscled arms both sword and smithy had given her. Her hair had grown longer and now hung like black silk to her hips. And she was grinning as she worked.

He had not seen her since that last lesson in the basement that Elrond had observed.

The younger of Elrond's twins, Elrohir, was sitting near her, his feet up on a table, balancing his chair on its two back legs. There was a bowl of berries and a pile of buttercups and cornflowers on the table, and as he spoke, Elrohir was weaving the flowers into a garland that was almost finished.

". . .so Elladan and I sneaked into the healing halls early that morning, and stole some hiccupping herb from the cupboard, and put it into Glorfindel's breakfast," he was brightly saying.

Glorfindel groaned. He remembered that day. It was a classic elfling prank. Only they had given him a double dose of the herb.

". . .he was hiccupping so violently from breakfast till dinner that he had to be sent to the healing halls and all training sessions for the day were cancelled."

A chuckle from Maeglin. Elrohir took his long legs down from the table, popped a couple of berries into his mouth, then walked over to Maeglin and popped a berry into hers as she worked. Glorfindel froze.

". . .Adar gave us a walloping for that, but Glorfindel himself thought it was very funny."

At that moment, Elrohir saw Glorfindel, gave a joyful shout and ran to the elflord and enveloped him in a hug, almost knocking him over. "You're back! You don't know how much we missed you! We were just talking about you!"

Over Elrohir's shoulder, Glorfindel saw the smile fade from Maeglin's face. She bent her head and continued working on her armour.

His heart twisted.

As Elrohir and Glorfindel walked up to her, she raised her head, gave a small smile, and said, "Welcome home, Lord Glorfindel. It is good to see you again." The expression in her obsidian eyes was cool.

"And you, Lady Lómiel," he said. "Where is Camaen then?"

Maeglin looked out over the meadow, and Elrohir pointed in the same direction. "Over there," said the younger twin.

And there, walking under the apple trees, was Camaen hand in hand with Lindawen the healer.

"Well. There appear to have been a lot of changes since I left," said Glorfindel, turning back to the smithy to see Elrohir setting the finished garland of buttercups and cornflowers on Maeglin's hair.

"Elrohir! Not now," she said testily. "I'm working. And you're making me look a sight."

The younger peredhel twin arranged the flowers around her ears, and paused to examine his work critically. "What do you think?" he asked Glorfindel. "A sight worth coming home to, is she not?"

"Very pretty. All ready for midsummer's eve," said Glorfindel in a stifled voice. He had carried the twins in his arms the day they were born, babysat them all through their elfling years, trained them as warriors, and loved them dearly. But at this moment he was itching to punch Elrohir in the face.

"We were afraid you wouldn't be back in time for midsummer's eve, Glorfindel! It wouldn't have been the same without you. And tomorrow we'll get to hear you sing of Gondolin again."

At which Maeglin blanched. As only Glorfindel could understand why.

* * *

><p>Elrond was startled when his seneschal burst into his study in righteous indignation.<p>

"My lord Elrond, since when has _Elrohir_ been paying court to Lómiel?" the elflord exploded.

No greeting, no report of business at Mirkwood. The balrog slayer was more far gone than Elrond had thought.

"Why, Lord Glorfindel, I'm glad to see you too. Welcome home. I was not aware that my son was paying court to anyone."

"_He's_ _putting flower garlands in her hair_."

"I do not believe it means what you think. She saved his life in the winter—"

"What?"

"She took an arrow for him during a skirmish with orcs—"

Glorfindel went white as a sheet. "You sent her out—to fight? What kind of wound?"

"Not a morgûl arrow, thankfully, but it punctured a lung—"

"Punctured a _lung_?" The balrog slayer looked as though he was going to faint.

Elrond eyed the seneschal with concern. "She has fully recovered of course, and Elrohir visited her often while she was in the healing halls. So they are good friends. He is grateful. As am I."

"How could you send her out to fight? She has a reckless disregard for her own safety."

"She is a good warrior, and like all warriors, she takes risks. As you do yourself."

"She almost got killed! Is she still serving?"

"She is, as said, fully recovered, so yes, she is still in the guard."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," he muttered darkly under his breath. To the Lord of Imladris he said, "I should have been there, Elrond! I would not have let it happen. I should not have been away."

He had said exactly the same words when Elrond's wife Celebrian had sustained her morgûl wound. And on both occasions Glorfindel had not been there because Elrond had sent him away. They both remembered it and were silent for a while.

"I am sorry, Elrond," Glorfindel said awkwardly. "I did not mean. . ."

"You were not sent here to save the world, Glorfindel. Only to serve as you can."

What is the use of being sent to serve and protect if you are not around when it matters most? But Glorfindel bit back the bitter words.

"I'm sorry, Elrond," he said. "I overreacted. I was out of line. . . Anyway. Thranduil sends the usual greetings." And he sat down to give his Mirkwood report.

* * *

><p>An hour later, as the seneschal rose to leave, Elrond cleared his throat.<p>

"So," said Elrond carefully. "You still care for Lómiel then."

"More than I could ever say," said the warrior, and the Lord of Imladris saw a look of tender yearning that he had never seen before in his old friend's eyes. Whoever would have thought that the day would come.

"She's come of age, you know," Elrond said. "We decided to celebrate it at Yestarë since we don't know her real begetting day."

Glorfindel knew the real begetting day of the prince of Gondolin. It had been a week before. And he thought he had the right present for her.

"There is nothing in your way," said Elrond.

The seneschal smiled wanly and left.

There was everything in the way. The greatest thing.

Maeglin Lómiel still hated him.

* * *

><p>Maeglin found herself catching her breath when she saw Glorfindel walking up the path to the smithy again.<p>

Earlier that day, seeing him with the morning sun in the golden glory of his hair, still cloaked and in his dusty travelling clothes, she had felt something lurch within her. Something that was not fear yet felt like it. That made her avoid looking at him, and speak her welcome coolly. The old enmity rising again, it seemed.

Yet how often in the past year had she found herself looking for him. She had grown so used to seeing the balrog slayer around the smithy that each wall and corner of the forge seemed to conjure up his ghost. She kept expecting him to walk in, kept looking for the gleam of golden hair, or expecting to hear his voice or his laugh. She could almost have thought she missed him—even though he was such a nuisance. Lounging around between his training sessions, getting in the way of their work, bothering them with trifling pieces of repair that were not worth doing.

And on the day of the week that they had their lessons in the basement, she would think of heading there after work, only to quickly remind herself that he was gone.

And now he was heading up the path to the smithy again. She glanced at him and nodded, and continued grinding the sword in her hand. Camaen, who was feeding the furnace at the back of the smithy, gave the seneschal a cheerful wave, and continued to stoke the fire, whistling as he worked.

Glorfindel was about to say to Maeglin, "You have gone back to sword making, I see," but caught himself in time. "That's a fine looking sword," he said.

"It will be passable after another round of tempering," she replied. "The problem is materials. It's not easy to get our hands on good ore here." How she missed the mines of Anghabar.

"I heard you have joined the patrols."

She smiled, remembering his objection. "You disapprove?"

"I heard you almost got killed." It was hard to say it so casually.

"You regularly almost get killed too. It comes with the territory."

"Have you made yourself a good sword?"

"Not yet. Standard issue still." She turned the blade she held in her hand, critically.

"I heard you came of age while I was away. I have a gift for you." He had realized in Elrond's study that he could not stop her from going on the patrols. Not only because of how it would look, but because he could not deny the fierce warrior in her blood, that he both loved and feared. But he could give her a worthy weapon with which to defend herself. And so now he took out Idril's sword. "It was made by a master smith in Gondolin."

And he watched her face turn white and bleak.

Of course he had known she would recognize her own craftsmanship.

Five years before Gondolin fell, he had gone to the Lord of the Mole, and requested a fine sword for a lady. Not a decorative one. One for use in battle.

He had not said who it was for.

Earlier that spring, Idril had spoken to him, her eyes troubled. "I want you to teach me to fight," she said, a note of darkness in her voice that he had never heard before from his tender-hearted, sweet Emmë.

"Fight? You? Why, my princess?" he asked, his blue eyes wide with shock.

Her grey eyes glittered. "I had a dream last night. There is a shadow coming. Teach me to fight, Laurëfindel. In my dream I saw I shall be needing it some day."

She seldom had the gift of foresight, but he would not argue with her. So he had got the sword made by Maeglin, and in a chamber at her palace quarters, while two-year-old Eärendil slept in the afternoon, he had trained his Emmë to fight.

And now, as soon as he saw his Maeglin's face when she saw the sword, he cursed himself inwardly and realized what a mistake he had made. Finally saw what he should have known a long time ago.

Why Idril had needed the sword.

That just before Maeglin was killed, he would have seen that sword in the hand of his princess. As she had tried to kill him, to defend herself and her child.

But it was too late to take back the gift now.

"It is a beautiful sword and extremely well-crafted," he said. "My mother told me in Valinor that I should give it to one who needs it. You have been a good student. Please accept it. I know you will make good use of it."

He gently placed it in her hands, and walked away. She was running her fingers over the blade as he left. Over the small mark on the blade, just below the hilt, where she knew the craftsman had left his stamp.

The stamp of the Lord of the Mole.


	18. Chapter 18: The Gates of Summer

Tarnin Austa, the Gates of Summer. The dark, early hours of the morning.

Glorfindel lifted his eyes to the midsummer sky, where overhead in their patterns, the stars shone in the darkness. At this time of the year, in their blood, in their _fëa_, all the Eldar felt more strongly the pulse of the starsong, the ancient beat and rhythm that had awakened their kind by the waters of Cuiviénien. Around the elflord, arrayed in their most resplendent robes, the Imladhrim stood assembled on the terraces and lawns outside the house, and lifted glittering eyes to the heavens, ears tuned to the faint harmonies of the stars.

As the starlight waned and the sky lightened, they faced the east. From behind the mountains to the east, a different song was growing and singing to their _fëa_, a harmony hot and bright and fiery, its roaring cadence washing over them.

The balrog slayer had stood thus to salute the dawn for thousands of years since the fall of Gondolin. He did not think of dragon and balrog fire lighting the skies over the majestic mountains to the north of a white city, or the black armies of Morgoth pouring through the secret pass on another Midsummer's morning.

As the first rays of Arien poured over the mountains and touched the faces of the Imladhrim, fair voices rose in unison, slowly chanting ancient verses in the old Quenya of the First Age. They sang in layered harmonies without instruments, the lilting and solemn cadences ringing strong and clear, echoing through the valley.

After the last notes had faded away, the Imladhrim broke their fast at the tables which were loaded with all manner of delicacies from the kitchen, and no one noted at what point the seneschal of Imladris disappeared. As sprightly dances to pipe, flute and harp began on the lawns, and festive songs for the day were sung, there were those, like Elladan and Elrohir, who looked about for the golden-haired warrior.

But he was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

><p>Glorfindel threw off his festive robe, and lay back on his bed, unable to shake a sense of despondency as heavy as he had felt a year back in Lothlórien. The terrible mistake he had made by giving Itarillë's sword yesterday, and the pain he had inflicted on Maeglin, still weighed on him. The memory of her pale face and her tormented eyes.<p>

Assembled with the Imladhrim for the night vigil, he had been glad of the silence which left him to his own troubled thoughts. It was not only that the gift in itself had been a disaster. The timing of the giving could not have been worse: the eve of Tarnin Austa, when it had all happened six thousand years ago.

As usual, Maeglin had not been on the lawn or terrace this Midsummer morning, as only he could understand why.

He remembered her first Tarnin Austa here, ten years ago. He had stolen glances at her face as she stood robed in dark red in a corner of the terrace while he took his place at Elrond's side. As the sky in the east had paled, he had seen the horror in her black eyes grow, seen her clenched fists and the cold sweat breaking out on her fair brow. And his heart had wrenched with the longing to comfort her.

As the sun broke over the mountains, and the hymn of praise was lifted, he alone had glimpsed the torment in her eyes. And understood why, after that day, she had never joined them on the terrace again for Midsummer.

He did not feel in the mood for Midsummer revelry this year either. He seemed as far away from ever winning Maeglin's heart as he had ever been. He had hurt his love badly. He was angry with himself, powerless to offer her apology or comfort or know how to redress what he had done. He did not even know where she hid herself away each Midsummer, did not know how to find her even if he knew what words to offer.

And then there was tonight. At Imladris, Elrond had begun a tradition in the Second Age of commemorating, once a century, the great kingdoms of Beleriand at different feasts of the year. This year, this century, Gondolin would be remembered. After a day of festive song and revelry, as Midsummer evening fell over the garden, songs would recount the history of Gondolin from its founding to its fall, ending only late at night.

Glorfindel customarily took turns to sing several of the songs with Lindir, but this year he was not in the mood to relive the heavy losses of his people in the battles in the marketplace and square, or to recount the death of his best friend Ecthelion in the fountain. He had recounted his battle with the balrog so many times that he could not believe anyone in Imladris would want to hear it again.

He was especially not looking forward to hearing a recount of Maeglin trying to take Itarillë by force, and fighting with Tuor before being flung off the city walls, though everyone always complimented Lindir on the dramatic power of his song.

He lifted himself and his heavy heart from the bed.

He would do as he had always done at Imladris, on those rare moments when he needed to escape from it all. He dressed in his grey hunting tunic and leggings and boots, strapped on his knives and his bow, and reached for his quiver of arrows.

He would seek the solitude of the northern mountain slopes.

He hunted for parchment and quill on a desk laden with weaponry, and scrawled off three short notes—one to Elrond, one to Erestor, and one to Lindir.

On his way out by the back entrance to the house, he passed the notes to a kitchen maid, planting a friendly kiss on her blushing cheek.

* * *

><p>Maeglin carefully hugged the rocky wall, watching the steep drop at her feet. The strong wind whipped at her black hair. This was the highest she had ever climbed in the valley, and she was dicing with death as she attempted this steep, rocky ascent with no ropes, only her hands and feet.<p>

As she had the year before, Maeglin had slipped out early and climbed the hills in the pre-dawn hours of Midsummer. But this year her Singer had been silent as she looked down on the dark valley and the twinkle of lanterns outside the house. Her heart had been heavy with bitter disappointment, and her mind had been in turmoil with the wretched memories they replayed.

Itarillë, crying out in a terrible voice that Maeglin had never heard from her before, as he had sought to seize her in her chambers.

_"What have you done, Lómion? What have you done?"_

Outside the palace, a desperate battle was being waged by Glorfindel and the warriors of Gondolin in the Square of the King.

Behind her, Itarillë had pushed her halfelven son. Gleaming in her hand, the prince of Gondolin had seen in disbelief and horror the sword he had made, and cursed the Lord of the Golden Flower. Over the blade, the sweet eyes of his princess had flashed with a fierce and desperate light that he had never imagined to see in them, never guessing at the ferocity that could be unleashed in a mother defending her own.

Imladris valley. As the sky grew lighter above the mountain tops, Maeglin desperately threw herself into climbing higher and higher, till the slopes were rocky and bare and the trees thinned out, and the winds tore at her hair and tunic. Trying not to remember other mountains. With the wind in her ears, she did not hear the song of salute rising from below as eight hundred voices were lifted in solemn praise.

A song that had never been sung, anyway, that other morning, as the alarm had been raised, as the people had scattered from the city walls in fear, and the lords of Gondolin had conferred urgently with their King, then dispersed to rally their warriors and prepare for battle.

Maeglin wanted the wind to drown out the voices of the Gondolindrim in her mind, crying out in fear and despair as they saw their doom come down upon them over the mountain tops. To drown out Itarillë's voice.

_"How could you, Lómion? How could you betray us?"_

Maeglin came a wider ledge of rock, and sat down to rest, trying to ignore the pain twisting in her heart, the memory of beloved eyes blazing with fury, and the sweet voice ringing out condemnation.

_"Traitor!" _

The prince had been forced to draw his own sword to fight her, halfheartedly, terrified that he might hurt her. Her blade had scored his right cheek, his shoulder, his thigh. Trifling wounds. The pain inflicted had been more to his heart than his flesh. He had disarmed her with more difficulty than he would have thought possible, cursing Glorfindel again in his heart.

Now, the sword sat in a corner of the Imladris smithy workroom, swathed in a thick cloth. Maeglin had wished to throw it into the furnace, but could not. Out of all the proud works of the Lord of the Mole, only this had survived the ruin of Gondolin and the drowning of Beleriand. A hilt he made, gripped once by the hands he had desired. A blade he forged, that had tasted his own blood.

The irony was bitter in Maeglin's soul.

But she had been unable to destroy the sword. Had set it down finally as though it burned her flesh. Had wrapped it in thick cloth and thrown it into the corner. She knew not what she would do with it, except leave it there in the smithy to mock her.

The sun over Imladris valley was higher in the sky now. Maeglin heard the high, fierce, lonely cry of an eagle over the song of the wind.

And something else.

Faint and distant, it came, a thin thread of lilting melody, from further down on the hillslopes.

Heart beating faster, she slipped off her ledge and slid precariously down a slope. Light as she was, in her hurry she still sent loose stone and pebbles rattling down.

She descended through pines and firs, fearing the song would end ere she could find its source. She could hear the lament more clearly now, the voice more beautiful than she had remembered, almost too beautiful to bear. As it had the first time, the lament once again pierced her to the depths of her dark soul, releasing her pain through the tears that flowed freely down her face.

The branches caught at her hair and clothes, but she did not heed them as she pushed past them. She went through a thick stand of firs and burst into a clearing.

And came stumbling to an abrupt stop.

On the mountainside, seated on a large rock beneath a stand of fir trees, also listening raptly to the song of lament, was Glorfindel.

The tears were pouring down his face as they were down hers, and her world tilted for a moment at the sight, for she had never seen him shed a tear. She had not even thought it possible. He turned his head and looked at her with a shock that matched her own. And with sadness in his eyes.

And the song ceased.

In the highly awkward moment of silence that followed, both of them brushed away their tears in some embarrassment and half-averted their faces from each other.

"What are you doing here?" she finally blurted out, astonished and angry, still not quite able to look him in the face. Dismay at her loss of her singer mingled with her resentment at Glorfindel for so many things. The sword he had given Itarillë. The sword he had given her. For being here where he had no right to be. For trespassing upon her precious solitude. For sharing the song and the singer that had belonged to her alone.

And for crying. For the strange tenderness she had felt when she saw his tears and the sadness in his eyes. Rebelling against the impulse, she was now working herself up into a fury against him.

"I might ask the same of you," said Glorfindel fairly calmly, his tears dried.

"Why are you not at the feast?" she demanded.

"I did not feel like it," he said simply.

"You love the feasts and festivals. You never miss them."

He gave a short laugh. "I have lived for over six thousand years, young one. That is a lot of feasts and festivals. It would not kill me to miss one." He got to his feet, and looked her in the eyes, and gave a small smile. "I shall not ask your reason for being here, if you do not ask me mine."

What was it about him this morning that caused her anger to evaporate even as she grasped at it?

"Surely they will be missing you."

"They may," he shrugged.

"Elrohir was telling me that you would sing tonight."

"I have excused myself. Lindir is more than able to sing in my place." She saw a touch of sadness in his eyes again before he looked away.

There was one question she was burning to ask.

"About the singer that we heard. . ." she said.

"Ah yes. The wandering singer of the hills," said Glorfindel, seeming to come back from far away. "Did you too seek to find him?" He took the arrows from his quiver and began to inspect them carefully. "I have tried a number of times over the last few thousand years. There is no pattern to his coming and going. He may not be heard for a few centuries. Then he may sing almost daily for a brief season. I do not believe he ever stays in the valley more than a month at a time. I was surprised to hear him today."

She drew closer to him. Something about him was different. She remembered his sternness a year ago, the tension and highly-charged atmosphere in the basement room. The Glorfindel before her now was more at ease, more like the Lord of the Golden Flower she remembered from Gondolin.

"Have you ever seen him?" she asked.

"Only a shadow, twice. And perhaps that is all he is by now. A tall shadow in a grey hood and cloak."

"So he fades. . ."

"I believe so. From the grief and burden you heard in his song."

"Yet a shadow could not have sung thus. His _hröa_ must still have some form." Her heart sank. If Glorfindel, with his speed and tracking skills, his ability to move in both the spirit and fleshly realms, had been unable to find this shade, what hope had she?

She asked her burning question. "Do you know who he is?"

"I have a good guess. If I am right, and I believe I am, the tale is a sad one," he said, stringing his bow and testing the draw.

"Well?" she said impatiently.

He looked at her and smiled. "It is not a tale for morning and sunlight. I will tell you some day by starlight."

He bowed to her, and turned and walked down the slope with his bow in hand.

"And where do you go now?" she asked, suddenly not wanting him to leave.

"To get some lunch. I saw a few plump mountain grouse on my ascent." He stopped and looked at her over his shoulder. After a moment's hesitation he asked, "Would you care to join me?"

And Maeglin found herself following him down. He slowed down to allow her to catch up with him, then reached out a hand and lightly brushed out some pine and fir needles that were trapped in her black hair. She looked at him sharply, but already he had moved away from her, his eyes looking for game and his arrow held ready in his bow.

They shot one grouse each, Glorfindel passing her his bow to use. Ever competitive, he suggested they see who could pluck a bird faster, and she scowled when he of course won, despite her fingers being finer and very nimble. "You may choose another contest later," he smiled, as he skewered the two birds and roasted them over a fire. She noted how he kept the fire between the two of them. She moved closer to him. Felt the tension immediately in him, though he showed nothing. He edged away slightly. Her eyes moved over his shoulders, his thighs.

Memory arose, unbidden.

A training room in a tower of Gondolin, the prince watching sullenly as his tutor took off his tunic for a session of unarmed combat.

"You can leave your shirt on if you wish, my prince, but I guarantee you that your fine linen will be ruined," said Glorfindel.

"In battle, if you had no weapon, would you really wrestle with an orc or a balrog?" said the prince, removing his shirt.

"Of course I would. If it would keep me alive a minute, even a few seconds longer, give me a chance to hurt or disarm my enemy, to get a weapon into my hand again. All right. You have a weapon, I don't. Come at me with it, that's right."

The next moment, the prince found himself lying on the mat, his head locked in the crook of Glorfindel's elbow, and so wedged against the elflord's body he could barely move. "And I have your sword," said the Lord of the Golden Flower in his infuriatingly pleasant voice. "Right. Let me show you how to get out of this."

Maeglin looked at the seneschal of Imladris as he sat across from her, and remembered the many lessons that had followed that one. Remembered the feel of the muscles of his chest and shoulders and torso. The feel of bare flesh against flesh. His scent. His skin. The hardness of his thighs…

She shook herself free of the thought, and focused fiercely on the fat from the grouse dripping into the fire.

She did not try to move closer to him again.

As he turned the spit, Glorfindel told Maeglin how he was one of those who could not tolerate lembas for more than a month straight. Over so many years of long travels he had become excellent at cooking in the wild, and the grouse was juicy and delicious.

As she began to eat, Maeglin thought of the limited and rather unpleasant journeys of her life. The flight from Nan Elmoth to Gondolin. The march to and from the battleplains of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

The road from Gondolin to Angband. . .

Almost as though he read something in her face as her chewing slowed down, Glorfindel began to speak about his travels. His words painted the desolate ruins of Himring on the north western coast, droll encounters with dwarves in Ered Luin, glimpses of the peace-loving hobbits of the Shire, and the one time he had ridden the broad plains with the proud horse-lords of Rohan. His stories were vivid and lunchtime flew by swiftly. For once she did not think in annoyance that the golden-haired warrior talked too much.

She began to whittle on a piece of pine wood with a knife after lunch, and remembering their contest, challenged him to carve a shape out of a lump of pine wood. So they whittled away with their knives, he sitting high in the branches of a tree above whistling to himself, she sitting on a log beneath. She held out a beautiful carving of Asfaloth on her palm, and he tossed down to her his completed masterpiece. She peered dubiously at the shape on her palm. "What _is_ this? A balrog or a bat?"

"Neither!" he said indignantly. "An eagle!"

At which she laughed so hard, the tears ran from her eyes and she almost fell off her log.

She tossed her Asfaloth up to him, and taking her knife to his carving, muttered that she would show him what an eagle should look like. He kept her Asfaloth carefully in his pouch, and smiled down at her from his tree as she rectified his handiwork.

In the afternoon, since he knew the mountains like the back of his hand, he showed her where the foxes have their lairs. They watched the young foxes play, and Glorfindel spoke softly to them and tamed them so that the cubs took food from their hands and allowed themselves to be carried by the two elves.

In the last hour of daylight, they foraged for dinner, which included pine nuts, berries, edible roots and bark, and mushrooms found in a rotting trunk.

They sat on a wide stone ledge jutting from the mountain side, watching the sun set in the west. There was a sheer drop below, and a breathtaking view. They could see the valley and the house, and to the right, a waterfall cascading down the hillside.

"Did you say you had a bit of elderberry wine on you?" she asked.

He tossed the flask over to her, for they were sitting on opposite ends of the ledge. She took a swig and tossed it back. He tossed a piece of lembas to her that he still carried in his pouch. Just home from his travels, he could not face another mouthful of it for a while.

They lit no fire, sitting companionably in silence as the darkness fell.

As they ate, she said, "You promised you would tell me about the Singer."

"I can do it in three words: silmarils, oathtaking, kinslaying."

And she remembered and understood. "Makalaurë Fëanorion."

"Yes. The greatest singer that ever lived. Some would say the second greatest, but then I never heard Daeron of Doriath."

And as the moon rose and the stars lit up in the sky, he told her of the Third Kinslaying at the Havens of Sirion, not exactly as in the histories he had learned, but as Elrond had related it to him in pieces over the years.

* * *

><p>The tiny halfelven twin sons of Eärendil hid under a bed, shivering and clinging to each other with hearts pounding, listening in terror to the screams of the dying outside.<p>

A warrior opened the door and entered. They saw the hem of his cloak, his booted feet, his drawn sword dripping dark blood on the floor.

The twins fought to stifle their sobs.

The warrior lay down on elbows and knees and looked under the bed. The twins saw bloody armour, long dark hair, and looked into large, glittering grey-silver eyes. The most sorrowful eyes they had ever seen.

The warrior-prince stared a long while at the halfelven infants. Then he sheathed his bloody sword, and spoke to them softly and kindly in a voice of great beauty that soothed their fear.

The prince locked the door and sat on the bed with the babes on his lap. He cradled them against his armour, in the protective circle of his steel-clad arms, and rocked them and sang softly to them till the sounds of battle and death fell silent outside the room. Till the door was broken down by a tall beautiful warrior with flame-coloured hair and fearsome eyes, who wielded a bloody sword with his one hand.

And with quiet stubbornness, in spite of the shouts and protests of his elder brother, Makalaurë Fëanorion had refused to surrender the infants. Had brought the twins home and raised them as his own. Had been more of a father to them than their own absent father had ever been. Had wept as he sent the boys away to Ereinion Gil-galad so that they would be safe. That they might not be tainted by the oath he and his brother had to fulfil to its bitter end.

An oath fulfilled by the seizing of their father's brilliant jewels from the Valar themselves. Jewels whose blinding, blazing purity had seared their corrupted flesh.

In anguish, the singer watched one jewel and his brother plunge into a fiery chasm.

In agony of body and spirit, the singer hurled his own bright jewel into the ocean, watched it illuminate the twilit skies as it arced through the air, and then light up the dark waters with its radiance, before sinking away into the depths of Ulmo.

In agony he has sung and lamented on these mortal shores for thousands of years, cursed still with the oath and the grief and remorse of his bloodsoaked soul.

Cursed to ever wander alone, and never to find rest.

* * *

><p>The moon was brilliant in the sky. The stars burned in their fiery paths through the heavens above, and the two elves shimmered in the light as they sat upon the mountain ledge in silence.<p>

"If you had found him," she asked, "What would you have said to him?"

"I would have asked him to wander no longer. I would have begged him to stay here in Imladris on this mountain, near where Elrond is," said Glorfindel drowsily as he leaned his head back against a large rock. "He has suffered enough. I would have pleaded with him to seek the mercy of Ilúvatar. And in Aman, if need be, I would plead for forgiveness on his behalf before Manwë and all the Valar."

They sat in silence together. The only sounds were the wind in the trees of fir and pine, and the roar of rushing waters cascading down. She looked out into the night, and the cold light of the stars shone down on her.

"Do you really believe forgiveness for such sin is possible?" she asked softly after a long while. There was no reply. She turned her head.

Glorfindel had fallen asleep.

He was leaning back against the rocky outcrop. One leg outstretched before him, the other bent. His golden head had fallen slightly to one side, and his blue eyes were full of dreams. His aura shimmered around him like starlight, brighter and whiter than her own.

She moved closer to look at him curiously, never having seen him asleep before, not even on the long marches to and from battle, since they had travelled days without rest, not stopping for fear of discovery.

She thought with sudden astonishment how this Midsummer had proven to be one of the better days in her two lifetimes. How the Lord of the Golden Flower's words and his companionship through the hours had pushed back her darkness and her demons and held them at bay.

She thought cynically of his optimism that the Singer could find mercy. What would he know, this chosen servant who had never crossed the Valar in his life? And yet, she would like to believe. . .

Her eyes travelled over his familiar face, and became soft. She tried to think of every reason she had ever hated him, of every reason she had this morning to be angry with him. And found that they did not matter. She remembered the tears on his face this morning, and the sadness in his eyes, and how that one moment had changed her view of him forever. Had made him real.

He looked so beautiful. She found herself drawn, as she had been in the basement as they had crossed swords in winter. Her eyes wandered to his lips.

She remembered another childhood story of Elrohir's. How Glorfindel generally sleeps so soundly that many years ago, the elfling twins were able to sneak into his chamber and tie the golden mane to the headboard with a piece of rope. And then they had stood at the foot of the bed and shouted at the top of their lungs.

As though in a dream, she leaned in and kissed his lips lightly.

He slept on.

Almost not knowing what she was doing, she leaned in to steal another. Tasting the softness and warmth of his lips. Feeling dizziness and warmth flow through her.

Then feeling him kiss her back.

In an instant she was back on the other side of the ledge, and Glorfindel was sitting up and looking at her in astonishment.

"I—I did not mean. . ." she stammered and trailed off, feeling shame and confusion burn her face.

"Oh? Then what _did_ you mean?" he said slowly as he moved towards her, wonder and softness in his blue eyes.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her, sweet and deep and tender, and both of them felt time stand still, felt how all the strange paths of their lives had led them to this moment. This place. This One. Giddy with the wonder of each other's scent and warmth, hearts pounding, they closed their eyes, drowning in the sensation of soft lips, strong hands, warm bodies meeting. Her hands pushed up his chest to the nape of his neck, fingers pushing through and twining in the softness of his golden hair as her mouth opened to him, hungry for more of his sweetness. His warrior's hands moved down her shoulders to run through the silken fall of her hair, to explore the delicate bones in her back, down the curve of her spine. She shivered. They came up for breath, looking into each other's eyes almost with awe. Then met again for a second kiss. A kiss which quickly deepened into something hungrier, as they both felt the same flood of heat, bodies pressing against each other in need, urgent to no longer be two but one.

They did not speak. The only sound was the wind in the pines and the roar of the rushing white waters that tumbled down the rocks near them, like the pounding, driving rhythm of their own blood.

As in the valley, the songs of the white city and its fall rose to the skies, the only two Gondolindrim in Imladris did not hear them.

Under the fiery wheeling stars and the silver light of Tilion, the hero and the traitor forgot the fall of fair white towers, forgot flame and ruin, forgot the pain of past love and loss and betrayal and death, and became nothing but the fire of their flesh and spirits joining, fair limbs entwined, golden hair mingled with black.


	19. Chapter 19: Flight

Maeglin woke in the half-darkness of pre-dawn light and for a moment was astonished to find herself wrapped in Glorfindel's arms, her head on the balrog slayer's shoulder. Then she remembered how an ancient heat felt six millennia ago by the prince of Gondolin had reclaimed her, and an aching void that had always been within her, for as long as she could recall, had cried out to be filled. And it had been. Not in the fierce throes of their first joining, as she had imagined, but later in the night, as each round of lovemaking had slowed in rhythm and become more tender. And finally, the last hour before sleep. Lying sated, limbs entwined. His fingers lightly tracing patterns on her bare back and shoulder, fingertips tenderly tracing the scar that still showed where the orcish arrow last winter had pierced her side. At last, the warrior had pulled her into the circle of his arms, his cheek against her hair, and had fallen asleep.

Neither had spoken, as though afraid a spell might be broken.

She had lain listening contentedly a while to his breathing and steady heartbeat, then fallen asleep as well. Peacefully for the first time. Without the shadow of a nightmare. Whole.

Awake now, feeling his warmth against her, she was filled with wonder that it had happened. That it was real.

And then it struck her.

Who she was. Who he was. How foolishly, for a while, she had forgotten.

How she could not look into his eyes and _lie_. How he must never know. How his eyes would fill with revulsion and hate if he ever did.

She shut her eyes in pain.

What had she done?

She had to leave. It had to end here.

She kissed him softly and he smiled in sleep.

So it was that when he woke up on the ledge to the sound of rushing water and the first light of morning slanting in over the mountain heights, she was gone.

They had exchanged no blessings, had not said a word to each other all last night, but he knew to the depths of his _fëa_ that what they had done was binding, and would be till the end of things.

He had a sinking feeling, remembering her parents, that she might not quite see things the same way and had probably taken flight. He groaned as he wondered what time she had left. He had to find her, and quickly.

He hurried down the hillside, went to the stables for Asfaloth, and rode out after her. In his _fëa_ he could sense where she was.

Maeglin had not gotten far. She followed the Bruinen River towards the pass, torn between desperation to escape and something that kept tugging her to stay. She had no clear idea where she would go. The road west to Lindon, maybe. She struggled against memories of last night which so filled her with want that she almost lost the will to leave.

No. It was unthinkable that she should stay in Imladris with Glorfindel there. It would be unbearable. Yet leaving felt akin to cutting out part of herself with a knife.

She found herself remembering her mother, and their journey from Nan Elmoth to Gondolin, the longest journey of Maeglin's short life.

Aredhel had turned her head to look back, and muttered, "He will come. He will not let us go so easily." Urging on her horse, she had added, almost to herself: "He has no rights over me, none. We said no blessings. We exchanged no rings. I am not bound." Words carelessly fallen, which had stabbed her son through the heart.

Maeglin's heart at present ached with terrible need.

_No. They could not be bound._

She sensed him before she saw him. When she glanced over her shoulder and saw the whiteness of Asfaloth and the gold of Glorfindel's hair streaming bright in the first rays of the sun, she knew it would be futile to run. But she did anyway. Off the path and towards the woods.

He dismounted, ran after her, and caught her in his arms.

"Lómiel, don't go, please—"

"Let me go!" she struggled, and he released her.

"You don't have to leave," he said, pursuing her as she walked away.

"I cannot stay. I cannot. Leave me alone."

"What happened last night. . . Can you not feel it? That we are joined—"

"Is that what you say to all the women you bed?"

"What?" he said in shock. "No! How can you think that? There has only been you! There will only always be you."

The sincerity in his eyes, the intensity of his voice shook her.

"No!" she said fiercely. "It was wrong. It was rash. We said no blessings, we gave no rings. You are free of me, and I of you. It was nothing."

"It was not nothing! It does not need rings or blessings. My heart and spirit are joined to yours for all time and the Valar themselves cannot undo that. If you leave now you take my heart with you."

It took all her strength to look into his blazing sea-blue eyes, and twist the knife. "I never asked for your heart and I cannot be joined with you. It was nothing to me. Let it end here, and let me go."

It had been easier to lie and pretend all was well as she had waited for the flames of Angband to light the sky above white peaks. She turned quickly and walked away, tears beginning to sting her eyes.

The hurt was so great, he could not speak for a while. He would rather have faced the fiery whip of the balrog again a hundred times again than endure this. And out of the pain and desperation of his heart he could only think of one thing to say to her departing back.

"Lómion, do not go!" he called after her in Quenya, in anguish. She came to a sudden halt. "I love you, my prince."

She spun round and looked at him in shock. He saw that a single tear had begun to slide down her cheek and his heart suddenly hoped.

"What?" she whispered, also in Quenya, her other tears vanishing quickly. And as he advanced, she backed away and drew her knife. "Stay away from me!" she snarled, panic and bewilderment in her eyes. "How did you know?"

"Lómion—I have always known." He could tell she was not really going to use that knife. She kept it level, pointed at his heart, but she was steadily backing away. "And I love you."

But then it dawned upon her, and her black eyes suddenly flashed and narrowed. "You knew!" she said slowly, her voice a growl. "When you gave me the sword, you knew!" He saw the fire in her eyes, and knew at once that she was now going to use the knife in dead earnest. She began to advance on him, her face grim. She drew a second knife.

"I thought it would please you to receive back something you had made," Glorfindel said, backing away and staying out of reach of the blades. "How was I to know? I was trapped at that time in the Great Market and the Square of the King, fighting off hordes of Orcs. Itarillë never told me what happened. I only guessed when I saw your face. I am sorry, I never meant to hurt you."

He saw fresh horror come over her mortified face, and she halted abruptly. "Last night—last night, you knew! You _knew it was me_, and you—" She began to flush a deep red as the acts of the previous night suddenly appeared in a very different light. "Oh, Valar—" she whispered, dazed with total humiliation now at the memory, her stomach lurching.

"Yes—and it was absolutely amazing," said the golden warrior. "There are no words for how incredible you were—" At that the Lord of the Mole advanced on the Lord of the Golden Flower with blazing eyes, and lunged at him with the knives. As he sidestepped the blades, Glorfindel wondered if it was ever possible for him to say the right thing.

"You bastard!" Maeglin said in a voice choked with fury.

"I admit it," said Glorfindel dodging one blade as it whizzed close to his face and jumping back from another aimed lower down. "I can assure you however that I am not Turgon's."

"I am going to kill you," she snarled, "you misbegotten son of a troll!"

"But Lómion, I love you!" he narrowly missed a stroke that would have disembowelled him. "And I thought—I thought you felt the same way—or at least you enjoyed it—you certainly sounded like you did—"

At that, the Lord of the Mole let loose a string of vehement and highly colourful invectives on the Lord of the Golden Flower and sent him dodging behind a tree with a series of very purposeful knife strokes.

Glorfindel looked at her in awe.

"By the mountain of Manwë!" he said admiringly, "you are magnificent when you're angry!"

A knife came whizzing at him, and he ducked it as it slammed into the tree behind him. That would have gone right into his eye, he thought, as he pulled the blade out of the wood. He decided to keep silent and let her get it out of her system. They went dancing deeper into the woods, she slashing at him viciously with her remaining blade, he always keeping just out of its reach.

After another minute, the warrior decided that it was enough. He quickly moved in and disarmed her. As the knife went flying, she aimed a punch at his jaw, which he blocked.

"Who else have you told?" Maeglin demanded angrily, her face hot with shame.

"Only Elrond, and he thinks I am insane," said Glorfindel. He blocked another punch, quickly grabbed her arm and spun her around, holding her back against his chest, pinning her arms at her sides while his other arm was locked around her neck. "Please, _melda_—my prince—stop fighting me. I do not want to hurt you." Feeling her struggle against him, the softness of her hair against his cheek, brought a strong urge to turn her to face him and kiss her, exploring the sweet wet warmth of her mouth that he remembered so well. He sensed that if he tried that right now he was likely to get kneed in the groin quite forcefully.

"How? How did you know?" she cried out, still fighting and trying to use her weight to slam him into a nearby tree, and failing. Glorfindel stood with his feet firmly planted, and held her in an unbreakable yet gentle grip.

"How could I not? I have known you for over a hundred years. The name. The smithy. It was rather obvious, don't you think?" he said gently into her ear. As Maeglin tried to manoeuver herself out of his grip, Glorfindel added, "I taught you how to do that. It won't work."

"You _hated_ me."

"No, it was you who hated me, Lómion. I tried so hard to be friends," he said, yielding to temptation and kissing the jawline near her ear.

"Do not pretend that you even _liked_ me," she said, still trying to break away, but her breath catching at the touch of his lips.

"Yes, my prince. I disliked you very much." The alluring softness of her white neck right before him was too much and he began kissing it. "Always scowling. No sense of humour."

She began to flush with something quite different from anger.

"How long have you known?" she asked, giving up the struggle.

"From the first day when I saw your eyes," he said, leaning the side of his head against hers.

"I hate you," she said, but in so toneless a voice she might have been saying the opposite.

"I know," he said sadly. "But I will always love you."

"No! You cannot!"

"Cannot what?" he said gently into her silken black hair.

"Cannot love me."

"But I do." He nuzzled her neck.

"Stop that!" She tried to elbow him in the ribs. "Can you not see how wrong this is?"

"Not at all. Not anymore."

"The hero and the traitor," she said bitterly.

"A long time ago, and far away. It does not matter."

"Surely you must hate me. . .for what I did."

At that, he turned her to face him, and looked deep into her black, haunted eyes. His fair face was solemn. "No," he said softly. "I do not." And he kissed her.

A huge piece of darkness that had weighed on her soul for six millennia fell away from her in that moment and vanished into the abyss in the depths of the Halls of Mandos.

And when he kissed her again, she kissed him back.


	20. Chapter 20: The Betrayal

_[Mild torture and minor character death. __Maeglin's first person point-of-view, about 6 months after she and Glorfindel have bonded.]_

He is there when the dreams wake me. Holding me in strong arms till the shaking stops. And he sings. His light glowing and flowing into my unlight.

In the first days, I believed the dreams banished forever. That the strength and light of his body against mine in the night would hold the demons and darkness at bay. I was wrong.

* * *

><p>There is no time in the depths of Angband. Only an eternity of searing agony, measured in screams and curses. I know not how long I have been here. Days. Weeks. Months. There is nothing left of me, only nerves afire with pain upon pain upon pain. I have spoken nothing but curses spat forth in rage. I nurse my anger and hate. They alone give me strength. My one prayer: that death will come quickly.<p>

Then suddenly, they cease their tortures. I still shake and shiver uncontrollably from the pain of my wounds, my breath ragged in the silence, awaiting the next onslaught.

The lieutenant of Morgoth comes forward, and tries something new. He strokes my hair slowly and the pain recedes. He speaks to me in a voice as terrible as the edge of an iron sword, as seductive as silk on skin. "I can see your heart's desire, young prince. Other things you may hide from me, but this—ah, this dark, dark desire you cannot. How you burn. How you lust. And what if I said that you could have it? Yes. The golden princess for your bed. As you dream each night, and each day. . ."

Even amid the pain I feel the heat. I feel the abyss of longing within me, that has burned, unsated, for so long. Images of Itarillë fill my mind. Responsive. Eager. Mine.

"Yes. Yours. Utterly. Devotedly. For a simple word. An easy word." The voice of silk whispers in my ear. "Where is the secret city?"

I can barely breathe for the war of desire and will within me. I think that I might die. I wish that I might.

There is no patience in the heart of Morgoth. "Well?" A voice deep and molten like the earth's depths, terrible as the frozen wastes of the Helcaraxë. "Mairon, I begin to tire of this game."

"A moment, my liege…" Sauron's voice was a caress. "Yes, sweet prince. Your every fantasy fulfilled. Your deepest dream made real. Come. How easy it is. A beauty for your bed, a bright crown for your head. Love. Power. Glory. Just tell us where. . ."

Glory and power I cared nothing for. But love. . .

Itarillë. Her eyes, her voice, her skin. I am nothing but heat and burning lust. Sauron's fiery red eyes stare into mine and smile. Images assault my mind, and sensations wrack my body. I groan with need so great that the earlier torments seem nothing next to it. The ache, the want, the void is so deep.

"I will tell you. . ." I hear my voice.

I hear the words spill forth. Hang in the air so briefly. Nothing can take them back. Nothing. Deep within, I scream denial.

Sauron laughs. Morgoth rumbles.

"I have said it. Let me go." Horror and despair crawl within me.

They are not done. "Excellent. A bargain, fair prince. All that remains is to seal it with blood."

The sound of chains. A prisoner dragged in by the arms by two orcs. He lies limp upon the filthy ground. White skin smeared with dirt. Slender limbs. Hair that once was fair. Chains on hands that were dragging against the floor are now lifted next to mine. We hang, side by side. The head of the other is fallen forward. Hair once gold matted with filth and blood.

"One thing only is needed, and you will be released. Bind yourself to us with blood." said the smooth voice I loathed. The orcs begin their torture. The moans and cries of the prisoner begin. And go on. And on.

"Stop!" I say brokenly. "Stop. What do you want from me?"

My shackles are released. I crumple to the filthy ground, breath ragged and limbs like water.

The silken voice of the Lieutenant of Angband. "Your soul." A morgul knife is slid into my hand.

"No. . ." I whisper. The screams go on. Echo off the cold stone walls. The laughter of orcs and of Sauron.

"Choose, slave." The deep growl of Morgoth. "End his wretched life and gain your freedom. Or descend into the pit with him."

Weakly rising to my feet. The blade cold in my hand. Swaying, turning to face the other who hangs from the wall.

Beneath matted hair once golden, hollow grey eyes stare. Grey pools of pain upon pain. And in the broken beauty of that face, Glorfindel looks back at me. I shudder in shock.

"Well?" Lord Sauron's silken voice in my ear. Morgoth's lieutenant reaches out a hand to caress the prisoner's bruised and bloody cheek. "This once was as beautiful as you." Then rakes long nails deeply through one arm. The prisoner screams.

"Stop!" I cry. "Stop! I beg you."

Grey eyes lift to meet mine. In the abyss of pain in the prisoner's eyes, I see a faint flicker. A spirit still brave, unbroken after fifty years. And a mute appeal for release.

I grip the knife hilt in shaking hands. With my remaining strength, push the blade into the brave soul's heart. The grey eyes hold my own to the last. Dark blood spurts forth on my hands, my face.

A ghostly shadow of a smile lifts a corner of the prisoner's mouth. I swear it.

The white _fëa_ departs.

I fall weeping to the ground before the lifeless body on the wall.

Black laughter fills the chamber. I am lifted from the floor. My feet dangle in the air. "Well done, servant of Melkor," says the voice of silk and iron. "A golden princess won. And a place in the kingdom of unlight." Sauron strokes my face. I scream in agony.

Then a song, flooding the chamber with light. A tall, white being is there, radiant with the glory of the Ainur, winds of power flowing over his form and lifting golden hair. Sauron and Morgoth give terrible cries, and fade. I am held in warm, strong arms, and the pain dissipates as I feel myself wrapped in waves of light and love.

"You're safe," he says softly as I wake, shaking and sobbing. He holds me to his chest, his arms wrapped warm around me. "It's over. It was only a dream. You're safe."

I push myself out of his arms and fall out of the bed.

"Melda!" he reaches for me, alarmed.

"Stay _out of my mind_!" I cry out, my voice terrible in my own ears. "You have _no right_—_no right_—get out!—stay out of my mind!" And I run into the bathchamber, slamming the door shut in his face.

The anger and pain are so deep I can barely think or breathe. I am still shaking. I sit in the dark, cold chamber, the light of the stars fall upon me through a high window. Rage, terror, shame, that the most secret part of me, the darkest, has been violated.

How much did he see? How much does he know? How dare he. . .How dare he intrude into my secret hell. . .

I weep with the grief and shame and self-loathing that this dream always brings, the darkest dream that has haunted me through the years. That haunted me to madness in the long year at Gondolin that I waited. Waited with Sauron's silken voice in my mind, his black leash upon my heart, and his choking gag upon my mouth. Waited for the hordes of Angband to arrive.

A dream that has haunted me each week at Imladris.

That goes beyond the horror of that black moment of treachery.

A dream of hollow grey eyes and faded golden hair. A familiar face seen in the horrors of hell.

The taking of a Firstborn life.

The moment the blade slid in. Over and over again I see it. The blade going in. My hands pushing it home. The dark blood flowing. The blade sinking in. Over and over.

Agonizing over what was in my heart and mind as my hands pushed it home.

Whether it was pity and awe. For the brave soul that had endured the black pits of Angband since the Battle of the Sudden Flame. . .

Or whether terror that the brave one's fate could be mine. . .

Or hatred for the elflord whose face and hair he wore.

The same elflord who waits for me, outside this chamber door.

I do not know how long I stay in there. In the midst of my pain, my love and longing rise in me. I recall the hurt in his blue eyes as I shut the door on him. I think of the warmth and comfort of his arms. And I am filled with need for him again.

My anger has fallen to cold ashes. I am left with terror that enters my heart like ice. That tells me he _knows_. Knows now the shame of my treachery… why I broke… why I sold my soul… why I slew that tormented shadow with his face and hair.

Pain grips my heart so tightly I can barely breathe. I will see the love die in his eyes. See horror and condemnation in its stead. See tenderness fade and hatred burn.

I feel him outside the door. It takes all my courage to open it. He is there. In his haunted eyes I see that he knows my dream.

I wait for the death stroke to my heart.

He comes to me and takes my face gently in his hands. His glittering violet eyes, looking into mine, are full of pain. Tears begin to spill down his face. "I am so sorry," he says huskily. "So sorry that happened to you." He wraps his warm arms around me tightly and rocks me gently as my fractured, strangled words choke out between wracking sobs.

"I was weak... _weak. _I tried... to be strong. I wanted to die... should have died. It should have been I who died there. I killed him... I was so weak... Sauron broke me... broke me like a twig... I killed—them all... I _killed them all. _I killed—you_..._"

He strokes my hair and holds me. His own tears fall on my shoulder and into my hair as he shares my pain. He kisses my mouth, and we taste each other's tears. "You were brave," he says. "You were strong. Anyone would have broken in your place."

It is not true. He would never have broken. I know his _fëa_. In a hundred years he would have been yet unconquered by Angband, his shining soul pure as snow and his heart unyielding and true as a diamond. Uncorrupted. Undefeated. Like the golden-haired warrior whom I slew.

He lifts me in his arms and carries me to the bed. Loves me with a passion slow and deep and tender. As though his kisses can purge away guilt and shame. As though his caresses can sooth away the aching emptiness that betrayed a city, or his touch can wipe out the defilement of Sauron's hand. He takes my body to new heights of pleasure as a salve for all the tortures that wracked it. The giving of his life-seed an absolution for all the deaths and for his own.

Two seasons have passed since. Winter is upon us.

The dream of Angband has not returned.

Each night in the warm cocoon of our bed, he offers me his song and his light in my dreams. Dream by dream, he casts out the darkness. Slowly defeats it. Drives it back into the abyss.

When I wake, he offers comfort the only way he knows how. With the sweetness of his kisses and the passionate love of his warm body in mine.

Could any love could last till the unmaking of all things? I dare not believe it. But I shall treasure what I have each day. This love I do not deserve. That gazed into the abyss of my black soul and the shadows of my darkest dream, and chose to love me still.

A love that is teaching me day by day to trust...

That he will keep my secrets safe.

And that he will walk gently in my dreams.


	21. Chapter 21: Bonded

The moon hung vast and white in a cloudless, starry sky. They walked through the still majestic ruins of Himring, hand in hand, listening to the haunting, melancholic booming of mighty waves pounding against the rocky shore.

The strong sea winds whipped through their hair, golden and black, as they stood looking out at the restless ocean from beneath the ruined stone arches and columns. There was a desolate beauty in the moonlit landscape. All that remained of the ancient elven realms of Beleriand. Her fingers traced in wonder, on one pillar, the faint outline of the burning flames of the house of Fëanor engraved in stone, discernible even after millennia of assault by the elements.

"Maitimo used good stone," she told him.

They looked out at the ocean, where all they had once known now lay, beneath the waves.

"Do you think your tomb is still there, above the waves, as legend says?" she asked. Upon it, fair stalks of eight-petalled golden celandine blossomed still, they said.

He smiled and shrugged. "It does not matter if it is. I am here, am I not?" He had heard the legend many times but it had never interested him. He was not inclined to be morbid.

It had been her idea to come to Himring and look across the waters to where the Echoriad and Gondolin used to be. He stole glances at her, but saw nothing in her face to worry him. This confronting of the past seemed to be part of a slow process of healing that he had witnessed taking place in her day by day.

Feeling her hand grow cold in his, he gathered her in his arms and held her to warm her. Her black hair beat against his face, and she moved out of his embrace and lifted hands to braid it back.

"You do not have to do that," he said, knowing how braiding annoyed her. "I like your hair loose."

"And flying about in your face?"

"I mind it not at all," he said truthfully. "Unless," he added teasingly, "you are afraid your hair is starting to tangle."

"My hair does _not_ tangle! Ever!" she snapped at him, ceasing her attempts to braid. "Does yours?"

"Never," he grinned, and reached out for her.

* * *

><p>Glorfindel had been a little dismayed, the day after that midsummer, when she had insisted they be secret and let no one know. But he had not been surprised. He might have wanted to shout his love from the highest tower in Imladris and let everyone share their happiness, but he knew how different from him his dark <em>melissë<em> was.

He also took it in his stride that she had not once said she loved him. Or that when, after their lovemaking by the Bruinen, he had murmured "_vessë"_ into her ear, she had remained silent and only smiled. This was Maeglin Lómion. The first and last time he had ever declared love for someone had been one of the most painful days of his young life. Yes, it was going to take a long time. But now that Glorfindel had his black-haired maiden and was sure of her, he could be patient. A thousand years, if necessary.

* * *

><p>Glorfindel felt that he had done things the wrong way round, binding her to himself so quickly without a proper courtship, and he was determined to set that right. When Elrond, a year later, sent him to Cirdan at Mithlond on an errand, he decided to seize the chance to show Lómiel the ocean. So she told Camaen she had decided to travel to Lindon in an attempt to search for her kin—which she knew sounded exceedingly lame after eleven years, but she could come up with nothing better—and followed Glorfindel as he escorted a small group of Imladhrim who were sailing to Aman.<p>

It had been a joy to see the wonder on her face at her first sight of the vast ocean, and her pleasure in her first walk in the eddying waves with him, feeling sand soft beneath her feet. After the voyagers had set sail and Glorfindel's meeting with the ancient mariner was done, they spent some weeks walking the shoreline, swimming, fishing and gathering clams, and he told her of his childhood in Vinyamar.

She felt a little restless, having been so used to work that she scarce knew how to be idle. Glorfindel sat sprawled among the rocks, leaning his head back and soaking in the warmth of what was proving to be an exceptionally long summer, and looking as though every muscle in his body was completely and blissfully relaxed. She looked at him lovingly, thinking how over the past year, the joyful Lord of the Golden Flower of Gondolin had slowly returned and displaced the stern seneschal of Imladris. "Come here," he said lazily. "You're giving me a headache pacing about like that." As she sat between his legs, he kneaded the muscles in her neck and shoulders. "You have to learn to relax, _melda_. Feel the sun. Just enjoy it. Just be." He pulled her back to lie against him. "Do not think."

"How can one not think?"

Glorfindel was baffled by the question. "Just—don't. Be the sun on your face, and the wind on your skin. Be the happiness in your heart, that you are alive." He kissed her ear. "And that you have me," he teased, and wrapped his arms around her. "And just be." He leaned back and closed his eyes again.

And she took a deep breath, and lay back against him, and closed her eyes, and tried.

* * *

><p>He asked her on another day, as they sat side by side on the shores of Mithlond watching the sky burn red and molten gold over the shimmering waves of the harbour, whether she felt the call of the sea.<p>

As he did, looking out across the ocean, to the place he knew was home.

She shook her head. "Everything I want is right here." And her black eyes were shadowed once again.

And he understood. All that waited for her across the seas was the multitude of people she had betrayed. All those she had slain. And one for whom she had lusted in vain.

And here and now in Middle Earth was all the happiness she had ever known in two lifetimes.

He folded his arms around her, and held her tight.

* * *

><p>A month later, on that moonlit night at Himring, as they camped in a corner of the ruins more sheltered from the wind, she watched him go to sleep. He almost always fell asleep before she did. And she lay at his side with her head propped on one arm, watching him sleep and his blue eyes dreaming, as she often did. She still marvelled when he woke up with no memory of his dreams. She generally remembered all of hers, but thankfully they were more pleasant ones now. Most of the time.<p>

Autumn was coming upon them. Tomorrow they would begin their journey back to Imladris through the Blue Mountains. She thought of the past year and three months of their lives, and how home for her now was wherever the warrior sleeping before her was.

As she listened to the rhythmic thunder of the waves against the shore, and as the silver light of the stars and moon shone down on them, she murmured, almost without thinking, "_Melin tyë_, Laurëfindel."

"What did you say?" he said, his blue eyes focusing into consciousness.

She rolled over and lay on her back, and stared up at the stars. "Nothing."

He leaned over her, his golden hair falling over her face. "I heard you. Say it again."

"I have no idea what you are talking about. You must have been dreaming."

He began to tickle her. "Say it. I am not stopping till I hear it again."

"Stop that!" she punched him, laughing. "Stop that!"

"I am merciless. Yield. Say it!"

And finally, after laughing so hard she hurt, she said through her chuckles, "I love you, I love you, I love you! Stop it, please!_"_

He stopped at once, his eyes dark and tender. She rolled the balrog slayer under her, and looked down at him, black hair spilling over her shoulder onto his chest. "I love you, Laurë," she said softly, and kissed him. "_Melindo_."

And no one went to sleep after that for another hour or so.

* * *

><p>"I need you to back off, Laurëfindel."<p>

They had just returned from a patrol where he had killed eleven orcs and allowed her to kill just two. She threw down her sword—Itarillë's sword—on his bed, and they both began to remove their armour.

"What do you mean? It is not unusual for me to ride out with the patrols."

"But it is obvious that it is always with _my_ patrol. And that you always try to stay close to me. And take down my foes for me. Stop trying to protect me."

His eyes were pained. "Do you think I could forget that you were wounded once before?"

"I fought in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad just as you did. I led my house into battle just as you led yours. I do not need your protection!" She stormed off into the bath chamber.

"It was a different time in a different body," he said, watching her draw the water. Words he regretted the moment they left his mouth. The only sound was water running into the bath.

"Are you saying," she said slowly, "that I am less than what I used to be?"

"Not less. Just not the same. You are my mate now. I am not as fearless as I used to be, for now I fear what could befall you." He tossed a handful of bath salts into the water.

"That was not what you implied just now. You still think me weak," she said, stirring the water with a hand.

"No! I just meant I did not love you then, but I love you now. It changes everything," he said, pulling her into the bath with him.

"What of my fears? Every time you ride out on an orc hunt, I know that you will place yourself where the fighting is thickest, that you will take on ten times more than all the others, and risk yourself more than all the rest. And still I must let you go," she said, kneeling behind him and washing his hair. "I may not be the greatest warrior in Middle Earth. But I am a warrior. I need you to respect that, and let me fight my own battles. As I let you fight yours." She began to massage his scalp.

And sighing, he agreed. And he followed her out on patrol no more.

* * *

><p>She was insanely jealous.<p>

The first time she came upon Glorfindel in the foyer outside the Hall of Fire with one of the elfmaid lute players hanging onto his arm and giggling prettily up at him, he had looked over into his bondmate's fiery eyes and feared she would come over and rip the lute player's still-beating heart out with her bare hands.

As he watched her storm off out into the gardens, he murmured a hurried courtesy in the maiden's ear and gave chase.

"I hate you! Do not touch me, do not even come near me."

"What do you expect me to do – shove her away and tell her to get lost?"

"Yes! That is precisely what I would expect you to do. I would in your place!"

"That is not my way! I've been dealing with this for thousands of years, _melda_! There is always a gentle way of getting out of these things."

"The way you let her press up against you – it was disgusting!"

"Ah, but I did not press back! That is what matters."

"You were enjoying it too much."

"I was _not_ enjoying it – all right, well, maybe a little. _Wait_! _melda_, I was _teasing_! I did _not_ enjoy it at all. Truly. Do you know how annoying it is to have had to hold off female advances for six thousand years?"

"Obviously I do not," came the reply, as frigid as the Helcaraxë.

And his bondmate did not thaw out for the next week.

* * *

><p>One night in her bedchamber, as she lay on his chest, idly tracing patterns on it with her fingers, she reminded him of some things he had said to her in the halls of healing.<p>

"I did not!" he scoffed. "I would _never_ have said such things. It never happened."

"Annoying creature. I absolutely loathed you. Why would I even have wanted to imagine such things?" she snapped, giving him a jab in the ribs.

"Maybe you are imagining them right now."

"My experience having been so much more limited than yours, I would never have been able to imagine even half of what you said to me. Admit it. That was what you were dreaming of me at that time."

"Me?" he said innocently, and gave her his most maia-like face, perturbed because he truly had no recollection of the incident she recounted. He watched the sparks of golden fire begin to flicker wickedly in her eyes.

"Shall I show you how graphic your descriptions were, Lord of the Golden Flower?"

And to his surprise and delight, her lips and tongue travelled down the length of his body and proceeded to show him just what a pair of beautiful lips could do to a very sensitive part of his anatomy.

And the balrog slayer thought he had died again and gone straight back to Aman.

* * *

><p>In their tenth year together, she arranged to meet him one evening on one of the bridges by the waterfalls, and he was surprised to see her in a beautiful forest green dress and a circlet on her head that she only wore for feasts. He himself was dressed in one of his usual dinner robes. He stood there stunned into silent admiration for a while.<p>

She slipped something into his hand. And by the moonlight and starlight spilling in through the trees arching above them, he saw on his palm a pale, slender, shimmering ring, gossamer light and barely visible.

"_Ithildin_," he said, stunned. The mithril alloy perfected by the Noldorin smiths of Eregion, which had not been made in Middle Earth since the days of Telperinquar. She smiled and showed him a second ring in her own palm.

"It has been a work in progress for some time. There was not a great deal in the books to go by, but I managed to figure it out." There was a glint of pride in her eyes at her secret rings and her skill. "I put a little something extra into them," she smiled. "A little elven magic of old. They will be next to invisible when worn, except for a faint glimmer by moonlight or starlight."

"How—?" he said, his mind awed and still astonished by her genius.

And then he remembered.

The year after she had started work at the smithy, he had found her curled up on the bench outside her workroom window, reading a book on Telperinquar and the smiths of Eregion, excited and full of questions for him. He had been exultant at being so welcome for once. Camaen, born after the Last Alliance, had no memory of those times, and she had many questions about mithril, which she had never heard of or seen. She was despondent when he told her the mines of Moria were closed. As he saw the speculative gleam in her eye, he had said firmly, "And no!—I am not leading an expedition to Moria just so you and Camaen can mine mithril."

But he had brought her something the next day.

"A _comb_?" she had said, aghast and in awe at the same time as she examined the light, precious, silvery metal in her hand. The slender thing was worth more than five hundred times its weight in gold. At least.

"I've never used it. It was a gift from an admirer in the days of Eregion. A—uh, fairly wealthy admirer. Mithril was more common and less expensive in those days," he had said a little sheepishly. "You can keep it and do what you will with it," he had added, knowing she was dying to experiment on it.

Gazing greedily at it, she had almost forgotten to thank him, overwhelmed by the preciousness of the gift and all the plans she had for it.

Now, on the bridge by the waterfall and in the presence of Eru Ilúvatar, they blessed their joining, and slipped the rings of star and moon light on each other's forefingers.

And when he kissed her and murmured into her ear, "_vessë_," she smiled and replied, "_venno_".

"You are not going to pursue any more ring making after this, are you?"

"Oh, no. I think the Noldor are quite done with all that."

* * *

><p>When Glorfindel arrived back in Imladris after seven months in the wild and a long stopover at Mirkwood, he brought with him a good friend. An archer of Mirkwood, a sweet-faced Sindarin prince with violet eyes fringed with dark lashes, and pale silky blond hair.<p>

"Welcome and well met, Legolas Thranduilion," said Lord Elrond before the great door, coming out to greet them.

At dinner that night, Legolas was gaily telling of their adventures on the way to Imladris, and the awesome prowess of Glorfindel in slaughtering the pack of orcs and wargs they had encountered just east of the Misty Mountains. It was his first journey so far from Mirkwood in his eight hundred and fifty years, and the older elves at the table smiled at the excitement and eagerness of youth.

"And how did you find your sojourn at Mirkwood, Lord Glorfindel?" asked Erestor. "Not too many spiders, I hope?"

"Only about two dozen spiders on the way in and out. The Dorwinion wine was, as always, excellent! And I must say that the woodland folk outdid themselves in hospitality." Even Thranduil had been in a singularly good mood.

"Do you mean the hospitality of our woodland realm _ellith_?" laughed Legolas. "I believe they declare a day of mourning every time he leaves," he said to Elladan and Elrohir. "I have never seen anyone attract so many maids in their wake." He lowered his voice confidentially as he spoke. "He could not keep them out of his bedchamber at night if he tried_._ There was one really funny incident with a red-haired elleth who almost caused a riot in the guest wing—"

Soft as his voice was, an intense hush fell over the entire dining hall. Just a fraction of a second. Then everyone seemed highly engrossed either with their wine or the food on their plates, and tried not to look somewhere. Legolas paused in mid-sentence, arrested by the stricken look on Glorfindel's face. The elflord's blue eyes had darkened and for the first time Legolas saw what looked like trepidation in the face of the fearless warrior. He was staring straight at someone at the far end of the long table.

There, seated in between an elderly hobbit and Lindir the bard, a dark-haired beauty sat very still, her eyes fixed on a point on the table just beyond her plate. She was wearing a gown of a deep jewel red and its ruby hue threw into stunning relief her snowy skin and glorious jet black hair, which fell loose down her back, held only by a thin gold circlet with a single white gem on her brow. Her perfect features were immobile and expressionless, but a golden fire was beginning to flicker and flash dangerously in her obsidian eyes. Her slender white hand held a fork poised in mid-air above her plate, and her fingers were tightening on it as though she might stab someone with it.

Very quietly, she laid down her fork, rose from her chair with the regal dignity of a queen, made a small curtsey to Elrond at the head of the table and walked out of the hall.

Glorfindel flushed, rose quickly, and with a bow to Elrond and the whole company left the hall as well.

"I am so sorry, I had no idea!" cried Legolas remorsefully.

There was much less state and formality at Imladris than the woodland realm. Erestor, Lindir and Elrond's twins rushed out to the verandah that ran the length of the dining hall. After some hesitation, Legolas followed.

They saw the lass running through the gardens with Glorfindel in hot pursuit. Near the pond, he caught her hand and pulled her to a stop. Tried to placate her earnestly.

_"Meldanya—"_

Five pairs of elven ears tuned into the conversation.

"What is he saying?" asked Legolas, who had perfectly good hearing but could not understand Quenya.

"_'Nothing happened—'_" said Elrohir, straining his ears, for the golden-haired lord was speaking quietly and quickly. "It is not easy. They are using a very old Quenya."

"For how long have they been—er—" enquired Legolas, imagining with some glee the reaction of the Mirkwood female population when they realized Middle Earth's most eligible bachelor was spoken for.

"Forty-six years," said Erestor.

"No, fifty-eight. Since the Gondolin anniversary celebrations, I think," Lindir said.

"Fifty-eight!" said Bilbo at Lindir's elbow. "Oh my! What are they waiting for?"

"Well—it has all been rather secretive actually. I think she is a bit shy—" began Lindir.

The shy beauty gave the golden-haired warrior a tight slap across the face. It resounded loud and clear across the rose gardens.

"_Oohhh_. . ." murmured the audience at the dining windows.

"What is she saying now?" asked Legolas, seconded by Bilbo.

"_'Go kiss a balrog—'"_ said Erestor, who looked like he was enjoying this more than he should.

"Some choice words a little ruder than that, I think," said Elrond drily from behind his sons, having joined the group on the verandah at some point in the last few seconds.

"Now _he _is angry."

"There she goes again."

"She runs well."

"No one outruns Glorfindel. Oh, he has her. Good tackle."

Glorfindel, all too aware of the attention they were getting from the dining hall, slung his kicking and struggling beloved across his shoulder, and carried her towards the bridges near the waterfalls, out of earshot.

"All right, everyone, I think dessert is being served," said Bilbo, eyeing the plate of delectable lemon tart being placed on the table behind them.

"You must excuse us, Prince Legolas. We are all family here in this household," said Elrond, as everyone took their seats again.

"Extremely nosy family," said Elrohir cheerfully as he sat down.

Legolas reflected that this lack of formality would take quite a lot of getting used to, but he rather liked it.

* * *

><p>"Three visits to Mirkwood over the past fifty years, and not one word of these casual dalliances. And now I must hear of it from the lips of the Mirkwood prince?"<p>

"'Casual dalliances'? Do you know me so poorly after all these years?" he protested, deeply hurt.

"Do you think I have forgotten the gossip in the marketplace of Gondolin?"

"That is all it was—gossip and not deserving of any attention. Not a word of truth. How many times must you hear me say it? I have bedded just one in all my two lives: you. There is just one for whom my heart beats: you." He sighed. "Do you know how much I have missed you these seven months? We have gone through this so many times before. Please do not do this, _meldanya_."

The fire in her black eyes died down, and they became soft. "Forgive me," she said.

They closed the distance between them and kissed with all the hunger and need of a seven month long wait.

When they finally broke apart, he looked down at her tenderly but also with some exasperation. "Why do you always fear so much? Why is it so difficult for you to believe in me? I have been and will always be true to you. You know it."

"I do not know myself," she said, her eyes still wounded. After all these years, there were still a few lingering scars deep within her _fëa_. The deepest among them, that she was not worthy of love.

He saw the solution. He took her hand. "Marry me."

"We _are_ married—"

"Before the whole world, I mean. I am sorely weary of throwing _nísi _out of my bed and my room when I travel. I want you to move into my room, and not have to be creeping about every day—"

"What is wrong with _my_ room?"

"_Whichever_ room. _Our_ room. I want to kiss you in the corridors if I want, and hold your hand during festivals if I want, and not worry anyone will see. _Everyone knows_. Every _nér_, _nís_, and _hína _in Imladris. No _nís _in the valley has propositioned me for the last four decades. Even Bilbo knew within a week of his arriving to stay here. He wagged his finger and told me 'not to stay too long away from my lady and be good' when I left. I want our friends to no longer have to play this _ridiculous_ charade, pretending they know nothing. And do you know what really eats me? The irony of it all? Everyone thinks _I _am the one with the commitment problem. They come up to me and advise me to 'do the right thing' and hint that 'it is about time you settle down'._"_

He got down on his knees before her. "Make an honest man of me, Maeglin Lómiel. We will keep the precious bands of starlight and moonlight. But if you let me wear your gold ring on my finger for all the world to see, I assure you that all the _nísi_ in Middle Earth will give me a wide berth thereafter."

She smiled down at him, took his face in her hands and kissed it.

"I take it that is a yes?"

She kissed him again and nodded. Then held up one finger and spoke sternly. "But a very quiet ceremony, mind you. Maybe just Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel to say the blessings for us. And no one else."

"Certainly, _meldanya_."

* * *

><p>The twilight ceremony on the waterfall bridge took place two months later, as spring began to make way for summer.<p>

As Lindir opened the doors of the house for them, and they proceeded out into the gardens, Maeglin said in a whisper to her love: "I am never going to forgive you for this."

He grinned down at her lovingly and squeezed her hand. "You shall survive," he whispered back.

Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond were indeed there, waiting for them upon the waterfall bridge.

And stretching out on the gardens and the terraces surrounding them was a crowd of just about every ellon, elleth and child in Imladris. In their midst, Aragorn could be seen with some thirty of the Rangers of the North. A contingent of almost twenty from Mirkwood included Legolas Thranduilion. The party of fifty from Lothlorien included Celeborn the Wise, and Arwen Undómiel. Gandalf the Grey represented the Istari, Cirdan was there with some mariners from the Havens, and Bilbo Baggins of the Shire stood beaming in his finest waistcoat. Under the jewel-coloured lamps festooning the trees, the multitude of people stretched out from the lawns before the house, to the waterfall pools.

To be fair to Glorfindel, it was not his fault. He had asked only Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond, as agreed. Yet the word had somehow spread like wildfire, and the world had invited themselves. Amazingly, Erestor and Lindir had been able to handle the load of guests with no problems and seemed barely surprised by the influx.

Maeglin had been more nervous about meeting Lady Galadriel than she would ever care to admit. Upon her arrival at Imladris, the Lady of the Golden Woods had looked deep into the black eyes of her nephew's chosen with her piercing, brilliant gaze. Then slowly, she had smiled and said, "I rejoice to see the likeness of Irissë daughter of Nolofinwë walk the mortal lands again." And taking her cousin's daughter by the arm to walk into the house, the Lady had spoken into her mind, so that no other might hear: "_You have your mother's face and spirit, but your lot now shall be happier than hers, young one. May this life be blessed as the other was not_."

Maeglin had caught her breath, and turned her own sharp, dark glance on the Lady of Lothlorien's face. And then they had shared a smile.

The stars were brilliant in the sky as the blessings were said by Galadriel and Elrond, and as the gold rings made by the bride were slipped onto their forefingers. There was dancing and music and feasting all night, and the Valar themselves smiled down and blessed the two who, having come through Angband and balrog fire and the Halls of Mandos, were finally declaring to the world that they were one.

* * *

><p><em>Note: <em>

_I make Himring, the erstwhile stronghold of Maedhros, still part of the mainland, not an island off the coast. _

_I imagine Maglor (Makalaure) would still wander here sometimes, singing the Noldolante in the cold, bleak landscape littered with ruins. _

_Maeglin has an understandable fascination with the Feanorians, given their history and hers._


	22. Chapter 22: The Quest

"Are you sure that you want to send _four_ _hobbits_ on such a dangerous quest? Look at them."

The company of three in the council room looked out of the window at the four furry-footed child-like figures in the gardens of Imladris, the two younger ones clowning around and laughing.

"They are not warriors, they are children. The two younger ones, Meriadoc and Peregrin especially. Two months would not have been enough time to train them, and now you say they leave in a week. And do not remind me," he said to the grey wizard, "That one hobbit went with great success on the dwarven quest to Erebor. This is not a quest for treasure and adventure. With the fate of Middle Earth hanging in the balance, please—send experienced warriors to protect the Ringbearer. Send _me_. I have confronted Sauron and the Nazgûl before. I can face them again and defeat them. Surely it was for a time such as this that I was sent."

Elrond sighed. In their discussions on the selection of the company of the ring, Glorfindel had been upset at being ruled out.

"There are many reasons why it is not for you to go, Glorfindel."

"I have heard them, and I am still not convinced."

"Since we rely on speed and secrecy, their number must be small."

"Why nine? Why not _ten_? Ten is still a small number. Nine walkers for nine riders is poetic rubbish."

"And since secrecy is of the utmost importance, _you cannot go_. You are far too conspicuous. Your light and power will shine like a beacon to the enemy."

"I travel in the wilds all the time. I _assure_ you I can pass unobserved and unnoticed," said the seneschal, trying to dim his aura even as his golden hair caught and magnified the evening sunlight slanting through the window.

Elrond and Mithrandir looked at the luminous beauty of the elflord and tried to imagine him being inconspicuous anywhere. A smile played at the corners of the wizard's mouth.

"And if _one_ must go for the elves, send me, not Legolas Thranduilion. He is a great warrior, but you know I am stronger than him by far."

"But it is not a matter of strength, Glorfindel. Not a matter of strength, or power, or even skill."

"That makes no sense to me, Elrond! They are walking into the jaws of Mordor. They will need protection. They will need the best warrior they can get."

"If you stay, Glorfindel," said the wizard. "You can protect this valley and all that is precious in it. For we do not know if any dark assault may be made on it. Be sure that there will be many battles fought in the struggle that is to come. You do not have to walk with the ring to play a part."

"But I should go where I can do the _most good_. And surely that is with the Ringbearer to protect him."

"It is true, Glorfindel, that in battle you are worth an army," said Elrond. "But this quest is not an open confrontation with the dark forces. It is that which is small, even that which is deemed weak and insignificant—precisely that which the Dark Lord would scorn to notice—which will ultimately be his undoing. This is not your quest."

Glorfindel sighed deeply, folded his arms and fell silent, looking out of the window.

"You have already done your part, Glorfindel, in the annals of history," said Mithrandir. "As this age draws to a close, so is the time of the Eldar over, and so does your time of service end. Your work has been pleasing to the Valar. And it endures. But it is time for you to lay it down."

The balrog slayer turned his head to look at Mithrandir. "A war _begins_, Olórin," using the name he knew in Valinor five thousand years ago. "How can it be time for any warrior to sit back and lay his sword down? I certainly cannot."

"I am telling you, chosen servant. Your work has been completed. Your time is over." The maia's voice was gentle but firm.

"I need more than that, Olórin. I swore to serve and protect. Middle Earth sits on the edge of an abyss. The darkness gathers power, and all that we know here hangs in the balance. How can I stand down now?" Glorfindel looked at Elrond. "Please. Consider me. I beg you."

And he left the council room.

Elrond shook his head. "Glorfindel would want Manwë or Eru Ilúvatar himself to speak to him before he will accept it," he said to the grey wizard.

Mithrandir chuckled. "Well, well. He may get his answer sooner than he imagines."

* * *

><p>Maeglin was humming as she returned to her room. She and Camaen had successfully reforged the sword Narsil that day, and her skill and expertise from her years in Gondolin had been taken to a completely new level. A weapon of lethal beauty and might had been reborn as Andúril, Flame of the West, finer and stronger than any other blade that had left her forge in Gondolin, and she had set runes of great power upon the blade.<p>

She retired to the room she shared with Glorfindel wearing a triumphant glow, remembering how the resurrected blade of legend had sung and flamed in Aragorn's hands as he swung it through the air. Truly a sword fit for a king.

Their room was still the one next to the healing halls—actually, it was their two old rooms joined. They had broken down the wall between and moved in a larger bed.

She was removing her work-stained clothes from the forge when the elflord opened the door. One look at his face told her his day had not gone as well as hers. "Come here," she said, opening her arms to him.

As he tossed her onto the bed and dove in after her, she tingled with anticipation.

After that, as they sat in the bath soaping each other, he shared his frustration and told her what Elrond and Mithrandir had said. She listened attentively but remained silent. "You're bruised," he frowned, looking at her thigh as he soaped it. "Was I too rough just now?"

She smiled. "No. I liked it." While she loved his tenderness, on occasion, like her mother did, she liked to feel her lover's forcefulness. She poured water over the golden mane. "Elrond is right about one thing, melindo. You cannot go unobserved. You shine too bright. Even right now, sitting here with me. You're lighting up the water thrice as much as I am." She rinsed off his back. "It would jeopardize their mission."

He sighed as he rinsed off her hair as well. "You're biased."

"Of course I am," she said as they stepped out of the bath and towelled each other dry—they had gotten so used to this daily routine they did it without thinking. "I want you to stay here with me. I would be lying if I said otherwise. Though if you were chosen, I would let you go."

"I know you would," he said, kissing her as he towelled her hair dry.

"I wouldn't have much of a choice—"

Then she froze and caught her breath. They both did.

They felt it at the same time.

Something very small, very bright, very alive, and just come into being. Speaking to them both.

Their eyes, sea-blue and jet-black, grew wide as they looked at each other.

"Just now?" he said, his blue eyes darkening with emotion. "It happened _just now_?"

She said nothing, still in shock, her black eyes dazed.

Then another little light kindled. And Glorfindel, still looking into Maeglin's eyes, found himself equally bereft of speech. Then they both looked down at her belly in wonder.

Glorfindel smiled radiantly, lifted his wife in his arms, and laid her down gently on their bed. He gave her belly a big kiss, reaching out with awe to welcome the two warm, tiny flickers of golden life just begun. Lying on his front, he cheerfully began his first talk with his children. Dinner could wait.

And Maeglin smiled, laying her hand on his golden head, knowing that he would stay with them.


	23. Chapter 23: The Sword Laid Down

Glorfindel sat on a window ledge of the high tower, lost in thought as he gazed to the south. A chill winter breeze lifted his golden hair, and a light snow was falling, but he did not feel it though he wore only a thin grey woollen cloak over his tunic. There was little shelter from the elements on this high stone platform, despite the roof. Large open windows were set in four sides of the tower: north, south, east and west, and wind, rain and snow swept in.

The warrior sensed Elrond coming up the stairs, but did not turn to nod in greeting till the Lord of Imladris was just behind him.

It was now over a month since the Company of the Ring had set forth. The warrior had not said another word regarding his selection for the Company since that day in the council room. And when the nine members had been announced, his face had been serene and luminous.

In fact, for the past month, Glorfindel had seemed to glow with a preternatural calm, and for some reason that made Elrond uneasy. While Glorfindel's face was often expressive of his feelings, his mind tended to be opaque to Elrond's probing. And when he chose to put on, as he did now, this luminous, serene mask, the effect always unsettled his Lord. From experience, Elrond knew that this suggested the warrior was deep in thought over some issues. He had decided it was time to have a talk.

Elrond's halfelven blood was not as impervious to the cold as the warrior of Valinor's was. He was wrapped against the midwinter cold in a thick, dark-red winter cloak lined with fur.

"They should have gone past Nanduhirion by now," Glorfindel said to Elrond as he gazed south. "If all has gone according to plan." He sat perched precariously on the window ledge, oblivious to the hundred-foot drop below it.

"Come down from that window, Glorfindel. Even you might be hard put to survive such a fall."

With cat-like grace the warrior swung himself back into the tower and stood next to Elrond.

"Glorfindel," said Elrond gently. "I hope you do see why you could not go?"

"Yes," the warrior smiled. "You were right. It was my pride that could not accept it. I have lived by the sword for five thousand years. It feels strange to lay it down."

"Your sword may not rest for long."

"Our patrols may continue to go out as a precaution, but to tell the truth I do not believe any threat lies in these lands west of the mountains any longer. The enemy's forces withdraw east and south. There has been no sign of them anywhere around Imladris in these two months. Elrond, I know your foresight is greater than mine, but my heart tells me there will be no attack here."

"And my sight says that you are right," Elrond admitted. "We are unlikely to be the targets of the enemy for now. He knows that the Ring is abroad. Your captains and guard shall stay, but surely you wish to ride out with Elladan and Elrohir to join the Rangers of the North?"

The warrior was silent for a while, and Elrond saw a wistful look cross his face. "No," he said quietly and firmly, looking out of the window with a smile. "I too shall stay."

And Elrond looking out of the south-facing tower window saw also that from it one could see the Imladris smithy lying beyond the rooftops of the great house. Wrapped in a dark blue winter cloak, a slender figure was carrying a load of firewood from a shed to the smithy.

"Excuse me a while, my lord."

Glorfindel vaulted out of the east-facing window even as he spoke, onto the snow covered rooftop that lay twenty feet below. "Give me two minutes," he called back over his shoulder as he raced swiftly across the different levels of roofing to the other end of the house. He swung himself down by the bare trees growing there, and vanished from sight for a moment. Elrond watched as he reappeared, took the load of wood from his lady and carried it into the smithy for her.

And it occurred to Elrond that maybe he should start observing Lómiel as well.

Glorfindel came swiftly back over the roof, scaled the tower with ease using the rough masonry for hand and footholds, and swung himself back into the window, glowing from his exertions but not even breathing faster.

"There are stairs," said Elrond drily.

"Ah, but that was so much more fun!" said the warrior, smiling radiantly. "Now. Where were we?"

"Why would you choose to stay here? You are restless from idleness, and your energy has no outlet. You know you want to ride with the Rangers."

"No, peredhel. I belong here." Glorfindel began to pace around the stone platform. Then, as though it had everything to do with what they had just been speaking of, he said, "Whatever the outcome of this war, whether the Ringbearer succeeds or fails in his quest, we know that the time of the Eldar is done in Middle Earth. Our people will sail west."

"Yes. It is so."

"But I might not sail, peredhel."

"What?" said Elrond in shock. "We have spoken of this many times over the years. You have longed to return home to Valinor for five millennia. Your family waits for you. _Our_ family waits for you."

"Home and family are wherever my love chooses to be. And I think that she may choose to stay."

"She is young. Perhaps she cannot feel yet the call of the sea, yet surely she will go wherever you choose."

Glorfindel walked up to Elrond, no longer smiling. His glittering blue eyes looked calmly and gravely into the grey eyes of his friend. "Peredhel, you did not believe me when I told you once. Believe me now as I tell you again. This is Maeglin Lómion of Gondolin. Tell me what awaits her in Aman. Half a million Gondolindrim whose deaths she caused. A father for whom she was never ever good enough for, even as a son. A cousin. . ."

Glorfindel turned away, and gave the most mirthless laugh Elrond had ever heard from him. "Can you imagine the meeting with my mother, your grandmother? I have tried to think of all the different ways that could go. And none of them have been good." He looked back at Elrond. "Still you do not believe me. You think me mad."

"No," said Elrond quietly. "I am afraid I do believe you."

"It is important to me that you know it now, Elrond. I need you to understand. If the Ringbearer succeeds, peace will come, the time of the Firstborn here will end, and the Eldar shall depart. Perhaps she and I might stay here in Imladris. Or go to the Greenwood to stay with the Avari. But should the Ringbearer fail. . ."

He looked away south again. The sky was a darker grey, and the snow was beginning to fall more heavily.

"Then I shall ride out to join Estel and the men of the West," he said calmly, "And we will fight the Shadow with all the strength that remains to us. And I know her. Once she is able, she will come to fight at my side." The blue eyes fixed Elrond with a penetrating gaze the halfelven was more used to seeing from the Lady Galadriel. "But our children, Elrond. . . Our children you must take with you to Aman. Give them to the Lady Galadriel. She will know what to do."

Elrond drew a deep breath, his mind in a whirl from the series of unexpected shocks, the last shocking disclosure confirming a suspicion that had been forming in his mind. "You are expecting a child. . . er, children. . . twins?"

"Two boys," said the warrior, with a dazzling smile. "Having boys more than girls seems to run in the family, both sides."

"Doubly blessed news, and joy to you both. I can see why you wish to stay here and not ride forth."

"Not wish. _Need_. It is a hard time for her. She is not ready for this. Nothing could have prepared the prince of Gondolin for motherhood. I need to be here for her." His smile turned a little rueful. "Even though she throws me out of the smithy and snarls when I carry heavy loads for her."

"Maeglin, Prince of Gondolin," said Elrond softly in wonder, as all the pieces of the puzzle of the dark maiden who had appeared out of nowhere fell into place, and he saw the truth. A truth he had chosen years ago to dismiss as the paranoid babblings of a mind deranged by the pressures of guilt, overwork, and repressed lust. Only now did he begin to appreciate how such a love could have torn apart and almost destroyed his friend. And now, also, he was doubly filled with amazement at the undeniable fulfilment his friend had found. In five thousand years, he had never seen the balrog slayer more rapturously happy than in the past sixty years he had spent with his black-haired traitor.

He startled a little guiltily when Glorfindel said, "In your mind, I know you are thinking 'Maeglin the traitor'. So—how ill do you think of her now that you know?"

"I think no ill of her. She is a proud and fiery warrior. The captains say she has proven herself brave and selfless in battle time and again. She has honour. Undoubtedly, she is brilliant in her craft. And she has been a friend to all my children. I do not say this simply to please you." The Lord of Imladris looked into his seneschal's eyes to let him see that he spoke true. Then he added, with a little hesitation, "Is she much changed from the man she once was?"

"He was all that you have said, even then. And what he did, evil as it was, you would understand why if you knew what he had been through."

"There is a reason why you wished to tell me now?"

"Because I have not given up all hope of persuading her to sail west with me. I know you plan to sail not long from hence. She and I will linger here on these shores, and, if we do sail, it will be when Cirdan departs from Mithlond for the last time. If when you see your family on the far shores, you could speak with them: your father Eärendil, Itarillë. . . Prepare them. Pledge them to secrecy. If they could welcome Lómiel even if only for my sake at first, then get to know her better. . ."

"I can see that you have thought much of these things."

"I have seen it coming for a while. The children only complicate it further."

"Or ease the way. When they see your children, surely their hearts will be softened."

"Yes, it might be so. But if it comes to sending our children to Aman, and my love and I remain, it is not Itarillë I would ask to care for them. It might pain and burden her too greatly. I would ask Lady Galadriel to bring them to my father."

"Do not let your thoughts of the future be so dark and travel down so many roads so soon. There is hope yet. In my heart of hearts, I do not think the Ringbearer will fail."

"You speak not of your own troubles, peredhel. Yet I know that should the Ringbearer succeed, you shall have sorrows of your own to bear."

"You would be willing to be parted from your children for their safety. Even so I must be prepared to part from my treasure for her joy. There is no better man in Arda than Estel."

"You raised him to be so."

"_We_ raised him," said Elrond with a smile. "It seems but yesterday he was a small lad asking to be carried on your shoulders."

"It seems but yesterday Arwen was a baby trying to eat my hair," smiled Glorfindel, leaning against a wall.

"All babies, elven and mortal, seem to love doing that," said Elrond, eyeing the shining tresses. "And now you shall have your own to try it."

Glorfindel's smile suddenly faded as though he heard a summons. "Pardon me, Elrond. I must take my leave." He vaulted out of the east window again and raced over the rooftops, turning briefly only to give his lord a wave of farewell.

And Elrond gazed out of the tower to the south, his eyes pensive.

* * *

><p>As Glorfindel opened the smithy door, letting in a soft flurry of wind and snowflakes, Camaen greeted him with relief. "She was fine one moment, then she rushed in there and barricaded the door. I was just going to look for you."<p>

Glorfindel moved towards the shut workroom door and sent his thoughts out to his beloved. _Melda, I am here. Open the door. Please._

They heard the sound of a table being dragged away. Glorfindel leaned against the door and it opened. He closed it behind him. Maeglin was pacing about the room, weeping.

"What is wrong with me?" she said, her voice strangled with misery and resentment as she impatiently brushed away the tears on her face. "I cannot stop crying, like a fool. I cannot work. _I cannot work!_ What is happening to me?" He went to her and wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her, and gently wiped her tears away with a corner of his cloak. As he did, he reached out with his _fëa_ to his children to reassure them, feeling their distress at their mother's tears.

Even since the day of their children's begetting, Maeglin had been fragile. She had never expected such a thing. In the first week or so, she had alternated between a state of stunned disbelief, and sudden moments of aching tenderness for the two tiny sparks of life growing in her. Then had come flashes of resentment and unfairness. That she had not asked for this, was not prepared for this. She would swing between luminous moments of happiness, when all the future seemed bright and full with promise, and dark moods shadowed by fears born of the memories of her own childhood. Her mother. Her father.

What did she know of childhood, or having children? Much as she had loved her mother, she had no illusions about Aredhel's ability as a parent. She bore traces of childhood scars in her heart still.

Maeglin began to see the abyss of failure yawning before her.

Glorfindel, in contrast, had been positively glowing since that day. His radiant joy was at times a source of happiness for Maeglin, at others a source of further resentment. At one point she had snarled at him that if he was so happy over the whole affair, he was welcome to bear the babies for them both and leave her out of it.

Then, in the last two days, had come moments when she stared at her work, her precious pieces of craft, and found she lacked all energy or will to do them. And the first of the weeping spells struck her. She felt that having the children was the end of everything for her.

Today, the tears had started spilling down her face for no reason at all, as Camaen discussed the design for a gate with her. She had rushed into her workroom, mortified, and slammed the door. And found that the tears refused to stop. Had called out to Glorfindel in her heart, suddenly needing him badly.

"I cannot do this," she wept into his golden hair. "I do not want it. I was never meant for this."

"You will be all right," he said reassuringly, holding her close and stroking her black hair. "The way you are feeling is perfectly natural. It was not easy being a maid after being a prince. Being a mother after being a man must be even tougher. Give yourself time. You will be just fine, you are going to be a wonderful mother. Trust me."

"What do you know?" she suddenly snarled, pushing him away. "You never had this happen to you. Nothing really changes for you, but everything is changing for me. _It is not fair!_" Suddenly she swept a worktable clear with one arm, sending tools and pieces of armour flying, and grabbing the mightiest warrior in Ennor by his tunic, shoved him roughly back upon the tabletop, her eyes glinting golden fire.

"Now?" he said, somewhat stunned by her aggression, but also aroused by it.

"Yes. Now." And she climbed on top of him, and devoured his mouth with a kiss, fiery and deep and fierce.

At least she was not crying any longer, Glorfindel thought as fire burned through him in turn. He slid one hand under her tunic as he kissed her, unlaced her leggings with his other, and hoped that Camaen would not try opening the workroom door that had no lock.

* * *

><p>Maeglin pushed pieces of carrot, potato and lamb around her plate listlessly. Eventually, she gave up the struggle, laid down her fork and sighed.<p>

Glorfindel looked at her anxiously. She had eaten two pieces of fruit and nibbled halfheartedly on a tender piece of stewed bird he had placed on her plate. It had been this way for two weeks now, and already he could see she had lost weight, her beauty looking increasingly ethereal and fragile.

He had asked her several times if there was anything, anything at all that she felt like eating. She had shaken her head. Until finally, reluctantly, on this night, she named a food that they both knew. "_Laiqua Aracornë_. . ." she sighed under her breath, and Glorfindel's heart sank.

It was a type of bread that had been served at Turgon's table. He remembered a light, crisp golden crust, and a moist, fluffy, slightly chewy crumb studded with different types of nut. A bread redolent with the distinctive fragrance and flavour of herbs native to the valley of Gondolin. He had not been terribly fond of the bread himself, excellent though it was with certain dishes, finding the herbs a little too overpowering.

Herbs probably found only in a valley which now lay drowned forever beneath the ocean waves, and they both knew it. Glorfindel had no idea even whether the tiny grain the flour was made from could be found anywhere in Middle Earth now.

Armed only with a clear memory of the taste and texture of the bread, Glorfindel went to the kitchens of Imladris. By now the whole household knew Maeglin was expecting, and her recent lack of appetite had much distressed the chefs, who took great pride in the hundreds if not thousands of years they had spent perfecting their recipes and producing exquisite dishes.

The team of chefs adored Glorfindel. The seneschal never came back from his travels without special or exotic ingredients for them from different parts of Ennor, and in between his warrior-training sessions, when he dropped by hungry for a snack, he would sit around and chat with them as he ate, occasionally helping with washing dishes or carrying in firewood. Thus it was with enthusiasm that the chefs took up the challenge he presented. They listened attentively to his descriptions of the lost Kingsbread of Gondolin, and set to work discussing lists of substitute ingredients and possible recipes.

And so it was that as hundreds of leagues away the Company of the Ring was scattered and armies of orcs were on the move, the greatest warrior in Middle Earth sat in a kitchen sampling herbs and bread mixes while the Imladhrim chefs fussed over him affectionately like mother hens.

Two nights later, when Maeglin polished off the golden loaf set before her together with a large serving of stew, a jubilant Glorfindel bounded into the kitchens and gave each chef a big kiss, lifting each of them off the ground in a huge bear hug. And the chefs, beaming and blushing, basked in the glory of yet another culinary success.

* * *

><p>When the snows began to melt and the days slowly lengthened, Maeglin began to have more good days. The tears and mood swings declined in frequency, and she began to wear a luminous glow. He found her one exceptionally warm morning curled up in a chair on their balcony like a cat, eyes closed and soaking in the spring sun. The look of utter bliss and contentment on her face made his heart swell with such love and joy he thought it would burst. He leaned over to kiss her, and was rewarded as she opened her eyes lazily and gave him an incandescent smile.<p>

Then came the day when the elves of Imladris turned their heads south, and felt their hearts lift as a Shadow departed Middle Earth forever. There were songs of gladness throughout the valley that day, for the Ringbearer had been victorious in his quest. And immediately the entire household set into motion preparations long planned, for a journey that would have an end both joyous and bittersweet.

Glorfindel and Maeglin spent the last day before departure in the stables preparing all the horses for the journey. She checked all shoes, harnesses and stirrups, and he talked to the horses, discussed the route with them, and checked their comfort with the riders, saddles, harnesses, and saddlebags assigned to them. He preferred riding bareback himself most of the time, but most of the household preferred saddles for such a long journey.

They then returned to their room after dinner to pack their own effects, Maeglin bringing essential smithing tools in case any horse shoes needed attention on the long, hard road ahead. As usual, he packed his own bag for travel in ten minutes, and then lay on the bed, watching her as she packed hers. He observed with a wave of pleasure and tender protectiveness the very noticeable swelling of her belly now showing beneath the skirts of her green dress.

She turned to see him staring at her. "I will be fine. Do not worry," she said, as she folded a dark blue dress with silver embroidery.

"Do I look worried? Have I said a thing?" he said, smiling.

"I can read your mind. A long journey, the road is hard. I am carrying not one but two of your children. My condition is delicate. Blah blah. Why else did you ask Asfaloth to carry me instead of you on the journey? I am surprised that he agreed."

"On Asfaloth, you will not feel the slightest jolt even on the hardest road. It was a delicate negotiation, but he finally agreed on condition that he choose my steed for me."

"And who did he choose?"

"Alarcaro, the black stallion with the white star on his head."

"Good choice. I am sure Alarcaro felt honoured." The other elf-horses had a great deal of reverence for Asfaloth, the shining white horse of Valinor, and for his rider. "And I am glad you did not ask me to stay behind. I would not miss this for the world."

"I know. And truth is, I want you to be there." He interrupted her packing, folding his arms around her from behind. "It just occurred to me. What do you think of having the babies at Lothlórien on the way back?"

"Elbereth, we are not planning on being away that long!" she laughed, moving out of his embrace to finish her packing.

"It would mean we could travel at leisure, and there are so many places I would like to show you. Anyway, should Elrond and the twins decide to spend more time with Arwen in Gondor, we may depart from there only in early autumn. It is not wise to travel too near to your date. We could spend late autumn and winter in the golden woods. You will love it there."

"I was just told an interesting story," she said nonchalantly, checking through his bag to see if he had forgotten to pack anything for himself. "Did you take note of a woman large with child in the remnant that escaped from Gondolin?"

"Not really, I was too busy making sure everyone was not killed, and then getting killed myself. Why?"

"She was not of your house. Ecthelion's. She endured the hard road on foot, with little to eat, hard-pressed with dangers on all sides. In fact, she gave birth on the road. And both she and the child were fine."

He looked at her curiously. "And who told you that?" he asked, wondering who would have unknowingly had such a conversation with the traitor of Gondolin.

"Erestor told me. He was the child."

"_Erestor_? Why does he hate me so then, since I saved his unborn skin?"

"Because you delight in making his life difficult and play such pranks on him. He liked you much better when you were still the dead hero."

"That's a lie. I have not pranked him since early in the Third Age, and then only when peacetime in Imladris became mindnumbingly boring . I cannot believe he has not gotten over it in three thousand years. The man needs to move on."

"Not pranked? What do you call the snow drift from the roof that you dropped on his head just after the midwinter feast?"

"An opportunity too good to be missed. He happened to be standing there at just the right time. Anyway," he added as he set both their bags by the door, "seeing how Erestor turned out is the strongest argument for our not undertaking the journey home too near your date. It obviously damaged him for life."

She laughed, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him in a way that always made the warrior go weak.

"This is home. We are going to have our twins here."

He caught his breath, and smiled back at her. "As you wish, my prince."

They went out onto the balcony to enjoy the cool of the spring night. The beauty of the gardens, beginning to be lush with new life. The roar of the Bruinen, swollen with meltwater, rushing through the valley and to the south.

Yet already they could feel a subtle difference. In the air. In the earth. Deep in their _fëar_. With the unmaking of the one ring, the power of Elrond's ring Vilya was passing away. Slowly, ever so slowly, time and mortality would begin to steal into the beloved valley.

Among the rose bushes beginning to bud, they saw Elrond and Arwen, walking slowly together, heads close as they spoke under the starlight. They followed father and daughter with their eyes, till they rounded a bend in the path and vanished.

Arwen, fairest to walk the lands of Middle Earth since the days of Tinúviel. Ahead, the joys of a bride, the glories of a crown, the shadow of mortality, the sundering from kin.

Beginnings and endings, joys and sorrows, blending together in the cool spring night.

Glorfindel saw the sadness haunting Maeglin's eyes.

"We will not sail yet. Not with Elrond," he said gently. "Elladan and Elrohir shall remain here. For a season of time. And so shall I, for as long as the elven line of Turgon abides in Middle Earth."

She gave him a wan smile but said nothing, an old shadow he had not seen for many years returning to her face. He gave her a kiss that she responded to with passionate need.

Lifting her in his arms, he carried her back into their chamber.


	24. Chapter 24: Sunrise over Minas Tirith

Glorfindel whistled softly to himself as he braided pearls and white crystals into Maeglin's hair. He braided her hair whenever she allowed him to, which was seldom. He himself never needed any help with braiding. He had a dozen different ways of styling his own famed golden tresses, and he executed each of these with such speed and perfection that it had never made any sense for her to offer him any help, even if she were disposed to.

She reflected, as she watched his skilled fingers moving swiftly yet unhurriedly through her hair, that her beloved was less vain in many ways than a number of the other Lords of Gondolin. Ecthelion had worn diamonds set in silver in his beautiful dark hair, Rog loved red rubies, Egalmoth opals, Penlod pearls, and Galdor had flaunted emeralds as green as his flashing eyes in his fiery tresses. But Glorfindel had never needed any adornment for his golden head. The glory of his radiant hair alone had always been enough, so he kept his braiding simple. He had often been given sapphires to match his blue eyes, but he had hardly worn them except set in brooches pinning his festive robes or cloaks. She herself, as the prince of Gondolin, had preferred to wear plain black with a touch of silver embroidery. Accessories were kept minimal, like a single silver earring, a silver brooch in a cloak or robe, or a solitaire diamond.

Today, Glorfindel wore, pinned on his white robe, a golden brooch shaped like a flower, its eight petals like the rays of the sun. An exact replica of the brooch Galadriel had pinned in the swaddling clothes of a baby left on Turgon's doorstep, which Maeglin had created from memory for one of her beloved's recent begetting day gifts.

She was amused by how much he enjoyed playing with her long, silky black locks. He had remarked admiringly how much thicker and glossier it had grown since she had been with child.

"I hope you don't overdo it. Nothing elaborate, nothing like Ecthelion's, please."

"Don't worry, I know. You will look far lovelier than Ecthelion ever did, I promise. Just don't ever tell him I said so."

She was in her seventh month, but looked larger because she carried twins. Thankfully, the fastenings and lacing of her midnight-blue gown had a lot of allowance. Glorfindel admired how the silk hugged the curve of her now-full bosom and gently skimmed the swell of her belly.

"Tasteful, elegant, understated," she was saying.

"Right, right. Stop fidgeting," he said mildly.

"Hurry, it is almost time," she said, shifting in her chair as the babies started to kick.

"Such impatience," he said, showing her his finished handiwork in a mirror. The master craftsman of Gondolin and Imladris gave a glance of approval at the looking glass. He smiled. She did not have to say a word. That one look was confirmation enough that his work had met her high standards.

They stepped out onto the high terraces of the palace together and joined the Imladrim and Galadhrim who waited in the starlight, looking towards where the sky was lightening in the east.

"Ah, the Two Trees are here," said Erestor, as the couple arrived and took their place next to Elrond and his family.

"Shh, the vigil begins," said Lindir. And all the Eldar stood in silent stillness to await the rising of Arien, last fruit of Laurelin the golden.

The Two Trees had been Arwen's idea. She had given to Glorfindel and Maeglin, as her wedding present, a white robe for him and a midnight-blue dress for her. Embroidered down the side of the white robe was a gracefully spreading golden tree, and down the side of the deep blue gown, a beautiful, shimmering silver tree, and small silver flowers on the sleeves.

"Laurelin and Telperion," Maeglin had said in a hushed voice as she took the gifts out of the gossamer-like tissue they were wrapped in. "We cannot wear these, surely." In the First Age, the Two Trees of Valinor and their light had been held in such reverence that it would have been sacrilegious to wear them on one's clothes.

"It has been seven thousand years, _melda_," Glorfindel had said with a smile. "We can wear these in the Third Age, do not fear."

And their friends had enjoyed the sight of the couple in their new finery a month later at the Gates of Summer celebration.

"The Two Trees!" said Erestor at once.

"Day and night."

"Sun and moon."

"Light and dark. Nice," chuckled Gildor.

"Lady Arwen, you have outdone yourself," said Lindir, admiring the embroidery.

"Hmm, isn't the golden tree Laurelin supposed to be female, and the silver tree Telperion male?" observed Elrohir.

"I think that rather fitting, actually," said his quiet twin Elladan, looking at the bright and dark pair with a twinkle in his amused grey eyes.

"I think they look adorable," said Arwen, laughing at the comments. Her ever-luminous grey eyes sparkled with satisfaction as she examined Glorfindel and Maeglin in her handiwork. Oblivious to everyone around, they were holding hands and talking with their heads close to each other, indeed looking like day and night as they stood side by side.

When Glorfindel and Maeglin showed up at the Autumn festival of the Fading of the Year wearing something else, they had to endure more comments.

"What happened to the Two Trees?"

"Did Ungoliant get to them already?"

Which comments Glorfindel and Maeglin, of course, blithely ignored. But they did wear the Trees about once a year, and were now wearing them again for Arwen, who stood beside her father and brothers above the city she would reign over as Queen. It was for her the last Tarnin Austa dawn ceremony of her soon-to-be mortal life.

The city of Minas Tirith, capital of Gondor, lay spread below the elves. The elven travellers had arrived just the evening before the wedding day, and had shortened their Midsummer vigil to the half-hour before dawn.

The air was cool, the city lay dark and silent. They stood shimmering in the dim pre-dawn light, gazing eastwards. East, over lands once shadowed, now free. The Shadow of Sauron was vanquished, the one Ring unmade. The time of the Firstborn in mortal lands was fading, the Age of Man was here.

As the first rays broke over the horizon, two hundred fair elven voices lifted in the ancient chorus. Below, those of the people of Gondor already in the streets stood looking upwards, or opened windows to gaze and listen in wonder. On the layers of terraces outside the palace the fair folk stood, shining bright in the sunlight in raiment of many hues. Their voices rose and fell in the morning air, each note carrying clear and heartbreakingly haunting over the city, weaving a deep spell of enchantment over all who heard. The ears that heard that song would recall it ever after, and speak of it to their children and children's children—the morning of the royal wedding of King Elessar, when the Queen and her people sang over the city and blessed it, before their race passed away beyond the west.

Glorfindel glanced at Maeglin as they sang together, and saw her black eyes free of shadow for the moment as the sun fell golden and warm on her face. Each Midsummer marked another year they had been together. And each year his heart rejoiced to see in her face the freedom she was winning from her past. She glanced back at him briefly, and smiled.

He turned his own face back to the east, his face radiant as the sun as he sang.


	25. Chapter 25: Birth

In the end, they changed their travel plan on the way home from Minas Tirith.

"It is not a question of your endurance, _meldanya_," Glorfindel said, massaging the sore muscles in her lower back at a rest-stop. "I have not the slightest doubt that if you had to travel north to Fornost and back on foot, you would. It is the _needlessness_ of this suffering. Did you know both Itarillë and Celebrían spent most of the last few months of their pregnancies sleeping and resting, and being waited on hand and foot?"

"I am not Itarillë or Celebrían," she said stubbornly, but she was looking drained.

He sighed. "Listen. I have seen enough _nísi_ go through this to know how much lifeforce is drawn out of them, even with just one child, not two. And the father can only do so much to help. Why should you have to suffer long days in the saddle, even if it is on Asfaloth? It is so unnecessary." He folded his arms around her for a while and closed his eyes. Let his light and strength flow through her and the children. "Our children have strong _fëar_. Not fiery as Fëanáro's, it is true, but they demand a great deal of us." He released her. "We may have children only this one time, _melda_. Can we not just relax and find pleasure in it? And not another word about Erestor's mother. He was not twins, and we can be grateful for small mercies that he was not. And we are not fleeing for our lives. I want us to enjoy this time."

And thus it was that when the Imladhrim and Galadhrim parted ways on their journey, Glorfindel and Maeglin bade fond farewell to Elrond and his household who would make their long journey back to Imladris, and turned their horses aside to follow Galadriel and Celeborn to nearby Lothlórien.

There was a peace and enchantment still over the golden woods, even as the power of Nenya waned over it. Glorfindel and Maeglin walked over lush, green grass and under the shimmering branches of golden mellyrn. For an age after all the elvenfolk had departed, the mellyrn here would remain golden-leaved in winter, for the life of Valinor in its sap depended not solely on Nenya's strength.

"_Ai_. They are fighting again," Maeglin said, coming to a stop.

"They are playing," said Glorfindel, watching her belly bounce and shift in shape. It never failed to fascinate him.

"Fighting," she sighed. "What did I expect? They are the children of warriors, and they are having a war in me."

Glorfindel leaned over, patted the swollen belly, and said, "Sons! behave!"

And the violent kicking subsided to gentler movements.

They looked at each other in surprise and amusement. "Well, looks like they just need a telling off if they get too rowdy!" said Glorfindel with a laugh.

Maeglin chuckled as well as they resumed their walk. She hardly recognized herself anymore on some of these days in Lórien, for she felt whole, and full of life, and accepting of the destiny that lay before her as a lifebearer. On some days, she slept on the flower-starred grasses with her head in Glorfindel's lap, and he would sing various lays and songs to her and the children.

One afternoon, as his thoughts wandered to the past, he sang of Gondolin.

His voice rose melodiously in the cool autumn air, carrying on the breeze, so that some of the Galadhrim passing by saw visions of the high towers and the hundred courtyards in the sunlight, the busy marketplace, the King's Square, the proud lords in shining raiment riding on their steeds, the fair ladies walking on the white city walls, the colourful heraldic banners streaming in the wind, the lush green gardens with fair blossoming trees, and the silver fountains flowing. And encircling and protecting all, majestic high peaks crowned with dazzling snow, cradling within them an emerald-green valley of waterfalls and flower-filled meadows, over which the great eagles watched.

His voice fell silent. The twins had fallen asleep.

Maeglin, lying in his lap, curled on her side with a cushion under her belly to support its weight, said quietly, "I still miss it sometimes."

He was silent as he combed his fingers through her dark hair. Even after all these years, it would have sounded accusing to say, "So do I."

"They must never know," she said. "Never."

He gave a small sigh. He had been thinking about it as well. If there was any way they could ever tell their sons. Tell them their mother had once been a prince who unlawfully desired his cousin, betrayed a city, and cost the lives of five hundred thousand.

He could tell his sons about Vinyamar and his childhood by the sea. He could tell them all the glorious tales of Gondolin and his life there, and how he slew the mightiest of balrogs. But their mother's story would have to begin on a rainy night near Imladris, when she woke up in dark woods, pursued by wargs.

He was angry how cruel history had been to Maeglin. If ever they went to Valinor, Glorfindel thought grimly, he was going to have a long talk with his old friend Pengolodh the loremaster and insist on a rewrite of some passages in the annals of the fall of Gondolin.

"I will tell them of the Lords of Gondolin," said Glorfindel. "And how one of them was Lómion, proud Lord of the Mole. That he was fearless in battle, and the finest Noldorin craftsman outside of the House of Fëanáro. I will tell them how he commanded the undying loyalty of his House and his warriors, and that his words were few but wise. I will tell them that he built the seventh and finest gate of Gondolin."

"And allied himself with Morgoth and destroyed the fairest city in Beleriand and died a villain's death. There is no way of sugar-coating that part, my love."

"I will say how tragic a life he had, to have suffered much so young, and been so little understood in a life so short. He did not choose whom he loved. He never had a real chance at happiness in life."

"Do not be too kind to me. I made choices," she said calmly. "I chose to dissuade Turgon from obeying Ulmo, though I know Tuor spoke true. I chose to go out that day into the mountains to find new ores, when Turgon forbade all to leave the city. I chose that fork in the mountain paths that led to an orc ambush. They will need to hear all that too."

She paused. "And it is true. I broke in Angband. I sold my city for my cousin. My desires were dark, and used against me. You cannot rewrite history for my sake."

"I love you so much."

There was such a note of intensity in his voice that she looked up at him in surprise. His eyes were dark blue with emotion. He felt so helpless and angry at the ineluctable facts of history.

"You have strange taste in lovers, Lord of the Golden Flower," she said with a wry smile, then shifted restlessly. The weight of the twins made it uncomfortable to stay in one position for too long.

"I have been lucky in love, my Lord of the Mole." He helped her to sit up and kissed her.

"Lucky? _Ui_, you poor, deluded soul," she murmured and smiled, before carefully shifting her weight and lying again in his lap on her other side, burying her face against his tunic, and falling asleep.

Glorfindel gently arranged the cushion under her belly to support it, and gazed down at her with soft eyes as she slept in his lap.

A single tear trickled down his cheek. He brushed it angrily away.

* * *

><p>"<em>Melda<em>," he said. "Please stop being such a proud prince, and just scream. There is nothing wrong with screaming." He half-lay on the bed, one arm around her shoulders as his _fëa_ sustained her, his other hand holding hers.

"I have been through Angband. This is nothing."

But when the next contraction hit her, her knuckles turned white and she clenched Glorfindel's hand with a grip that would have fractured the bones of anyone less than the mighty warrior.

"You balrog-slaying bastard. You did this to me."

"Oh? I recall no protests from my lady as I ravished her."

That earned him an expletive so colourful that Glorfindel glanced nervously at the Sindarin midwife kneeling across from him on the platform of the flet, and was relieved to see from the green-eyed elleth's serene countenance that she understood no Quenya. And he saw, standing at the opening in the woven screens of the _talan_, the Lady Galadriel laughing quietly, greatly amused.

* * *

><p>Maeglin looked lovingly at their two sons lying asleep between them. "Well," she said with a smile, "Absolutely no doubt as to paternity here."<p>

Gleaming on one tiny head was the rich, bright gold hair of Finarfin's house. The other shone with fine wisps of pale white-gold hair. The first grey-eyed babe slept peacefully. His brother, restlessly pushing and kicking his tiny limbs against the swaddling, resenting restraint, had eyes of blue. Finrod and Rîlel's bloodlines had asserted themselves. Galadriel and Celeborn had gazed with radiant and soft faces upon the two infants, and smiled at each other as they remembered another time and another birth, many thousand years past.

All visitors and the midwife had now departed from their _talan_ to give the new family some time to themselves. Glorfindel lay on his side, looking at the two tiny heads. He had been hoping so much for one dark and one golden. "We need to try again to balance out the family," he said teasingly. "Let's get started straight away."

"Go ahead if you wish. I'll be with you in a _yén_," she said drowsily. She had been in labour for forty-one hours, and had been complimented by the midwife as most elven deliveries took over forty-eight.

The golden morning sun was now pouring in a warm gentle haze over their bed through a gap in the screens, even though it was midwinter. "Names," said Glorfindel to Maeglin. "This is Arinnáro," he touched the cheek of Bright-gold Hair who was still asleep, his hair radiant as his father's as it caught the morning light. "And this is Arman." He held the tiny hand of White-gold Hair, who had managed to loosen the swaddling cloth and was now gurgling happily and punching the air with his tiny fists.

"Yes," she murmured. "They suit." She held the other tiny fist and examined it, marvelling at the intricate workmanship of each finger and nail. Her eyes scrutinized the details of eyelashes, golden and dark, at the softness of velvet skin, and knew that nothing that had ever left her forges in Gondolin or Imladris could ever compare with this.

Mother-names could come much later, she thought, and yawned.

When the Galadhrim midwife next peeked into the _talan_, both parents and babies were fast asleep.


	26. Chapter 26: Meetings Beyond the Sea

He had eyes for no other, as he disembarked from the white ship. He saw her running as the ship drew near shore, saw her waiting on the dock, shimmering in the light of the evening sun, its rays illuminating her silver hair with soft-rose hues, lovelier even than he remembered. As he walked down from the ship, he saw in her iridescent eyes the wholeness and healing he had failed to give her. And she, gazing into his eyes, saw all the burden he had carried in the mortal lands, and the story of their recent joy and loss, and tears trembled in her eyes even as she smiled.

They stood on the dock folded in each other's arms for an eternity, as others milled around them in other meetings. They had never had great need for spoken words, and stood lost in the meeting of their minds. Even from afar, as he had stood on deck and seen the clouds part and the far green land on the horizon, his thoughts had gone forth seeking her, and heard her reply.

_At last,_ he had heard her say in his mind. _At last you are here. I have waited for you each day. I come, meleth e-gûren, love of my heart. . ._

Now, he felt her at last real and warm in his arms as he had dreamed so many years.

Then, he heard her speak once again. _Come, my heart. There are two I have brought here whom you must meet_.

Elrond reluctantly lifted his head from his wife's silver hair, and saw a lady with dark hair and sea-grey eyes gazing at him, so like Arwen in appearance that he had no doubt who she was. Dim memories from infancy conjured her face. He did not need to ask for his father. Already in the twilit skies above he saw the silmaril-star sailing. Elwing stepped forward with tears flowing down her cheeks, who had lost two sons six thousand years ago, and now received back one.

And behind Elwing, a lady crowned with radiant hair of light, pure gold. Glittering grey eyes scanning the crowd, searching, Elrond knew, for a tall warrior, for deeper golden hair and a beloved face, to find only the Lady Galadriel folding her much-missed daughter in her arms.

Elrond braced himself, and, still hand in hand with his mother, walked forward to meet his father's mother.

* * *

><p>From the terrace of his new home, Elrond looked down onto the myriad twinkling golden lights of the buildings of Tol Eressëa that stretched below. He looked up at the fiery stars above, constellations so familiar yet different, burning larger and brighter than in the mortal lands, seeming so much closer to earth. His father's star could no longer be seen in the sky. In the gardens below, he lovingly watched Celebrían walk hand-in-hand with her mother, deep in talk. He himself would be visiting his long-lost parents when daylight came, and his mother had departed earlier in the evening to make preparations for a feast.<p>

He looked behind him and was not surprised to see his father's mother approach. At the harbour, he had but told her that Glorfindel chose to remain in Middle Earth for a while, and perhaps would sail later. He had briefly glimpsed the stricken look in her eyes before Celebrían swept them all to her home. As they dined, the haunting sea-songs of the Teleri rose and fell in the twilight, wafting through the window on sea breezes.

"My lady Itarillë, will you sit here with me?" he said, pouring her some wine. She sat with her noble head proud and lovely on the slender column of her white neck, shimmering in the night with her fair, bright golden hair flowing over her shoulder down to the floor. The lovely face for which a city had fallen was touched with sorrow, for her love had passed beyond the circle of Arda. Not for her and her _adan_ the singular grace enjoyed by Beren and Lúthien Tinúviel. Great healing for grief had she already received in the gardens of Estë, but still that hint of sadness remained.

Would he have wished such a fate on Arwen, for the price of her immortality? Better this way, Elrond thought, to be severed from her parents and brothers but eternally with the one she loved in whatever afterlife Eru reserved for mortals. For Idril, who had made this choice knowingly, when once she gave her heart, life now centred on her sons. Elrond thought how carefully he must tread in what he was to say.

"You have been with my son Laurëfindel all these years, Elrond my son's son," she said. "Tell me how he does. He is well? He is happy?"

"He is indeed. He has been a mighty warrior and a leader of warriors."

Her face lit in a proud smile that said that was no more than expected.

"He was much pursued by virtually all the fair unwed _nísi_ in Middle Earth."

"Was?" she said with a smile, her sharp eyes interrogating him.

"Yes. It is amazing, for all of us who know him, but he has finally found his One."

Her penetrating grey gaze burned into him. "Finally, he loves! I knew it would come one day!"

"Yes, whoever would have believed it of him?"

"Tell me more. Is she worthy?"

"She is brave and beautiful, and she adores him. They are wed."

"Laurëfindel wed!" she exclaimed, her smile both dazzling and dreamy.

"And they have children, just born. Two boys, not yet a year old at the time we set sail."

"Children! Boys! Ah, too young for the journey," she said, her smile still incandescent, as though all was explained. "Then surely he will be coming soon, after a few more cycles of the sun."

Elrond was silent a while. "My sons remain in the mortal lands because of their sister. My daughter has chosen mortality, and we know not how many years will be given her on this earth." How it still hurt, every time he thought of it. "A _yén_, perhaps, if Eru blesses her. Laurëfindel will serve my sons till they one day sail. But," he paused. "I have to warn you. He is not yet certain if he will depart with them or stay in the mortal lands."

He watched her smile fade. She sat still like a statue. "Stay? In the mortal lands?" she said in bewilderment. "Why? This is his home."

"True. But his lady may not wish to sail."

He saw the emotions flash over her face. Dismay, consternation. The mother's fear of losing a child. The mother's resentment of a rival for her son's affections. The mouth hardening with anger.

"Why not? Of what kindred is she? Is she of the _Moriquendi_ that she would turn him away from his kin in the blessed lands?"

She was closer than she knew to the truth, but Elrond had already decided what he was going to say. "We do not know her kindred. No one knows. She herself does not. We found her eighty years ago in the forest, with no memory of her life before that moment. A young maid, not yet of age, naked as the day she was born. I do not think she could have been _Moriquendë_. She spoke fluent Quenya, in an accent as refined as yours. Rare in our modern times, I must tell you, when Quenya is a dying tongue among the elves in Middle Earth." Elrond sat back in his chair. "And she did speak Sindarin as the _Moriquendi_ do, at least in her first days there, until she grew more conversant in it. But she has always seemed far more comfortable with Quenya. She and Laurëfindel speak it to each other always."

Idril's long, slender fingers toyed with the stem of her wine goblet. "What is she like in appearance?"

"A maiden with black hair and almond-shaped black eyes, and a Noldorin look to her face." He spoke slowly, letting his words sink in. He saw a look of misgiving appear briefly in Idril's brilliant eyes, and sipped some of his wine to let her ponder his words. He eyed her face anxiously. Maybe he had already said too much for now. Black eyes were rare, and found only among the _Moriquendi_. History recorded only two personages with such eyes. . . deep, smouldering eyes of black obsidian. A dark elf. And his son.

She emptied her cup in one gulp. He began to feel worried.

"Black hair and black eyes, say you?" she asked, her voice strange.

"Yes. A great beauty, I must say, and much admired in our valley, though her temper is fiery." He smiled and refilled her cup. "Please let me assure you that Laurëfindel's mysterious black-eyed _nís_ has been good for him, Princess Itarillë. I have known him five thousand years, and believe me when I say I have never seen him happier than he is now. The burden and trials of his service had begun to weigh on him over the long years. In the last seventy years he has loved her, I have seen the light and joy he had when he first came from Valinor restored. And then some. He is radiant."

They looked out into the night, and listened to song of the Teleri and the long, rolling sound of surf beating on the shore.

"What is her name?" she asked in a quiet voice.

There was no escaping it. He had to reply to a question that direct.

"Lómiel," said Elrond, as nonchalantly as he could, cringing at the pain the name would inflict.

A small sound escaped from Itarillë, and a little wine splashed from her goblet onto her white skirt.

"Oh, I grow clumsy," she said with a short laugh, waving off his concern. "It is an old dress. It is no matter."

She drained her cup again.

As he refilled her cup, Elrond quickly changed the subject and began asking about the city and the various diversions available here.

He would mention that Glorfindel's wife was a smith on another day, far, far in the future, he thought.

* * *

><p>The following night, a brother and sister sat together in a fair garden at the foothills of Taniquetil, where Finrod had built a graceful white mansion so that his beloved Amarië might be close to her people. Their dinner had ended late, and Amarië had retired to allow the two siblings to talk. They had spoken through the night, and at the hour before dawn there was still so much to say after almost seven thousand years of separation. They communicated sometimes with speech, sometimes into each other's mind.<p>

As the sky in the east began to lighten, Finrod said to his sister:

_Come, Artanis. I have something to show you._

He led her into the house, and they continued to speak of various things as they walked through the wide, high-ceilinged corridors. Everything in the house spoke of grace, order and serenity. The corridors lit as they approached, and dimmed after they passed.

Finally, he opened a door, and hovering golden globes of light came to life.

Galadriel understood the moment she stepped in and her brilliant grey eyes swept over the room.

On a wall were maps of Beleriand and of Middle Earth in the Second and Third Ages. Marked out on the maps were key events of a life, the year and description written in a fair, flowing script by a father who had questioned voyagers returned from the mortal lands, and spoken to rebodied souls released by Mandos, in order to trace the life of a lost son.

Galadriel saw Gondolin and Vinyamar in Nevrast marked out in Beleriand, and the battlefield of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad where Glorfindel had fought.

Lindon. In the year 1206 of the Second Age, Glorfindel was returned to Middle Earth and joined the court of Gil-galad. Mistrusting Annatar-Sauron and sensing evil in him, the warrior had driven him out of Lindon at Gil-galad's behest. Alas, thought Galadriel, that Gil-galad and Glorfindel had been unable to prevent the entry of the evil one into Eregion, or prevent the crafting of the rings of power.

Anduin and Barad-dûr. She remembered how the warrior had almost died a second time and returned to Mandos in the terrible battles of the Last Alliance, only to be turned back from the Halls by the Vala, his service not yet done.

Fornost. He had confronted and driven out the Witch-King of Angmar, and released a prophecy that would be fulfilled a thousand years hence.

Imladris. For thousands of years, he had faithfully served as seneschal, and trained the forces of the Dúnedain, of Lóthlorien, and of Mirkwood. The final battles had been waged without him, but his long years of work had held strong.

And there were portraits capturing a life the father had missed. The finest master painters of Tirion had been commissioned, and caught with breathtaking realism moments of time described by Idril or Voronwë or Ecthelion. Galadriel saw a child laughing by the sea in a white tunic with his golden hair streaming in the sea breeze. . . a young Lord of Gondolin in fine blue robes standing grave and attentive by his King's throne. . . a warrior riding on the shoulder of a mighty balrog, his beautiful face stern in battle fury, blue eyes blazing with white fire, frozen in that all-too-brief moment of victory over his foe, as with both hands on the hilt he drove his sword deep into the back of the balrog's neck. . . there was blood in his singed golden hair and on his battle-dented armour, and a livid red streak down one cheek that had been torn by the balrog's lash.

A father's shrine to a son he was still waiting to meet.

Galadriel looked into her brother's glittering slate-grey eyes. He was leaning against a wall, his posture and the fall of his hair exactly like Glorfindel's had been, that evening in Lothlórien, when the balrog slayer had asked her who his parents were. But her brother's eyes were not tormented as his son's had been. Finrod's eyes were calm and clear with the patience of a five thousand year wait.

For, of course, as he had spoken to Idril, Finrod had traced Glorfindel's begetting date. Had understood that something had happened at Doriath, and guessed that Galadriel held the key to it. There was no reproach in the beloved eyes. Just the unspoken question that he did not even need to ask.

It was time for some answers.

Galadriel took his hands in hers, and looked into his eyes.

_Findaráto, please forgive me. . ._


	27. Chapter 27: A Journey to the Greenwood

When the invitation from Legolas arrived at Imladris in spring, everyone told Glorfindel he was insane to think of taking his wife and twins to visit the Greenwood.

"That is a journey of three hundred miles one way," Erestor protested during breakfast as he sipped his herbal tea. "And your children are just over two years old from their begetting."

The great dining hall was no longer in use. The remnant of the household sat gathered in a spacious parlour off the kitchen for their meals. On this morning in the parlour, natural light poured in through large windows opening onto the apple orchard, and the buildings of the smithy and stables could be seen lying beyond the early-blooming trees covered in pink blossoms.

"Why is Legolas still in the Greenwood, anyway? Did he not plan to reside in Ithilien?" Elrohir asked.

"Yes, I thought several of his people were ready to go with him," Elladan said.

"No. Not yet at least. His father has not given his blessing and keeps him in the woodland realm," Glorfindel replied, as he did his best to get Arman to feed himself rather than flick spoonfuls of porridge at Erestor and Camaen. And at himself. The balrog slayer blocked a glob of porridge before it could hit his bright hair, and managed to get the infant to shovel one more spoonful of porridge into his mouth. In his heart, the father could not fault his son. Flicking porridge was so much more fun than eating it.

Erestor moved his chair as far away from Glorfindel as he could. "Relax," said the warrior. "I will not let any hit you. I promise." He had successfully blocked every spoonful so far, but Erestor's mistrust of the warrior ran too deep.

Glorfindel smiled in triumph as the last spoonful of porridge went into Arman's mouth. And then sighed tragically and gave a rueful smile, as the porridge was spat back out.

"You are not seriously going to take the babies through the mountains and through that ghastly forest?" Lindir's arms wrapped protectively about Arinnáro, whom they all called Aryo, oblivious to the fact that the tot sitting on his lap was painting intricate patterns of butter down the front panel of his green robe.

"The forest is fair again. If as fair as I remember it once, it will be well worth the journey," said Glorfindel, ducking under the table to dislodge his younger son from Erestor's leg. "Lómiel and the boys would enjoy it." And it would get the boys out of everyone's hair—literally—for a while, he thought, emerging from under the tablecloth with Arman tucked under his arm, the infant scrunching handfuls of his father's radiant hair with porridge-stained hands. He had a fetish for hair. And for people's calves. Erestor examined porridge handprints on his leggings.

Then Maeglin spotted what her firstborn was doing. "Aryo! Stop that!" She took hold of a napkin and began to wipe butter off the guilty tot's hands and pat the hapless bard's robe. "Lindir, I am so sorry."

"Oh, no matter. It's just an old thing I hardly wear."

"We have good cleansing powders for silk. I think it will come out," said Lindawen.

"Look what you've done!" said Maeglin sharply. "Aryo, you know that was naughty. Say sorry."

"_Goheno nin_, Lindir," said the baby in a tiny voice with his rich golden head bowed and his grey eyes contrite. Lindir's heart melted. Aryo enunciated his words with startling clarity for an elfling so tiny, not even lisping. In contrast, his pale-haired brother still had not said his first word. To have been out of the womb fifteen months and not be talking yet was most backward, and everyone was perturbed except for Glorfindel.

"Glorfindel misses his days of adventure and travel," grinned Elrohir, spreading more honey on his bread.

"Well, by all means go, Glorfindel, but go alone," said Elladan, to the visible horror of Erestor and a few of the others.

"No," said Glorfindel firmly, to collective relief around the table. "I am not going anywhere without my family." Feeding time over, he placed Arman on the floor, and the infant began tearing around the room like a little whirlwind. Inspired, his brother joined him and they both raced madly around the parlour yelling at the top of their little voices. Glorfindel met Maeglin's eyes and smiled. "What do you think, _melda_? Shall we go?"

At that point, both parents quickly grabbed hold of the tablecloth just as their twins attempted to pull it and everything on it onto the floor.

"I think it would do everyone good to have a change of scene," said Maeglin drily.

And that decided the matter.

* * *

><p>Asfaloth and his companion—a dappled silver stallion named Gilroch—grazed on the sweet grasses of the wide, open plains of the Anduin valley, and watched idly as their riders romped in the open field. Behind them rose the great rugged peaks of the Hithaeglir, the Misty Mountains. Before them, in the distance, ran the great river. Beyond the broad Anduin lay their destination: the great forest of Eryn Lasgalen which they saw stretching out in the distance, as far as the eye could see to both the left and right horizon. Above them, in the vast expanse of azure blue sky, the descendants of Thorondor the Great circled high.<p>

The family had encountered wargs twice in the Misty Mountains, but Glorfindel and Maeglin had quickly dispatched the beasts with arrows. They had met no orcs, stray groups of which still lurked in parts of Middle Earth though the men of Gondor and Rohan hunted them relentlessly. The journey from Imladris and through the mountains had taken them twelve days, though their horses were sure of foot.

As the elf family sat on the grass of the wide Anduin plains, Glorfindel sang a cheerful little ditty about two worms talking to a bird and tickled his sons. They rolled around in the grass with squeals of delight and peals of silvery laughter.

Having cared for elflings for six thousand years, the hero of Gondolin had barely needed a transition to fatherhood. It had been much harder for Maeglin, who had wondered initially how to even carry the fragile things. Glorfindel's attitude to babycare was laidback. "People complicate this too much," he had said, with a newborn balanced casually on each arm. "Ensure they are fed, clean, do not drop them, do not drown them. That is all there is to it, really. Just support the neck and head," he had said, as he passed one to her. "You can breathe," he added helpfully, watching her adjust the baby in her arms.

She had soon discovered there was a lot more to baby care than Glorfindel's maxims, but his relaxed and confident attitude had been reassuring.

She was glad that now there were no more guards to train, and no more orcs to slaughter, the twins gave Glorfindel a focus for his energies. For herself, she had been amazed that she did not resent her children filling her life as much as she thought she would. She did miss her craft, but she reasoned that there would be an eternity of time to return to it, but only these few short years of their childhood to enjoy. Besides, there was little smithing work to do with the house and valley empty. Camaen busied himself with maintenance work nowadays more than actual smithing.

Glorfindel ended his song. The golden-haired infants scrambled to their feet, and ran freely across the field through grass that came up past their waists. The two adult elves sat watching. As the twins toddled through the grasses, Aryo looked as though he was telling a long story to his brother. Arman chuckled in reply but was silent. He gave his brother a big hug that sent them both tumbling to the ground again, and they rolled around wrestling each other and laughing merrily.

"Stop worrying," Glorfindel said, reading Maeglin's mind as they lay on the grass watching their sons. "Itarillë says I started speaking late as well. And once I started no one could shut me up. You should be enjoying this while you can."

Arman had begun to turn somersaults in the grass. Aryo tried to copy him.

"Did you teach him to do that?" said Maeglin.

"No," said Glorfindel. "It comes naturally."

"How much like Arman were you as a child?" asked Maeglin,

"Far worse, if you believe Egalmoth, Ecthelion and Rog," laughed Glorfindel. "And they were the only ones who could tolerate me for even half a day. I hear that Salgant and the other lords at Nevrast ran for the hills each time they saw Itarillë approaching, those first years of my life. So did your mother. Irissë gave me a wide berth till I was about thirty-five years old and became, as she put it, 'more interesting'."

Maeglin gave a wry smile. Her mother Aredhel had never liked children. Except, thankfully, for her own son. Maeglin fondly remembered riding and archery lessons in Nan Elmoth. Aside from that, Aredhel had neglected any other form of education, and let Maeglin run wild in the woods for most of his childhood—whenever he was not slaving as an apprentice in his father's forges, that is. She had casually and cursorily taught him to read and write Quenya only when he asked her to, at the age of twenty. Years later, he had had to work extremely hard to catch up under Pengolodh's tutelage in Gondolin. In some ways, Maeglin thought, her mother had been more like a friend than a parent.

Glorfindel looked at Maeglin and thought how like and unlike her mother she was. The same pride, courage and independence, yes. But Aredhel had been irresponsible, careless of any sense of duty or obligation. Maeglin as prince and lord of Gondolin had demanded much of himself, had taken his duties seriously, ever seeking with fierce pride to prove himself able and deserving of the positions Turgon had given him. Aredhel had been as ebullient and self-assured as Glorfindel. But whereas Glorfindel could channel his energies into running a house and training for war, Aredhel could only spend idle days riding her horse around the green valley, practising archery, and being exhorted to take up weaving or growing flowers or painting like other ladies. No wonder the valley had become, for her, a prison.

Glorfindel looked at Maeglin with soft eyes. Beneath the pride, the fiery temper, the scowls, the touchiness and taciturn arrogance, Glorfindel saw in her—had always seen—the vulnerability and self-doubt, the fear and loneliness lurking beneath. The softness of the porcupine beneath the quills. Such depths of tenderness and lovingness had blossomed in her once she had the assurance of finally being accepted for who she was.

The children had wandered too far. He stood and pulled Maeglin to her feet, and they caught up with their sons.

"Ah," said Glorfindel, looking into the distance. "I see some old friends." Maeglin saw three powerfully-built black-bearded men with broad shoulders coming in their direction. The leader looked to be taller than Glorfindel by at least a head.

"I would want to be their friends, all right," she murmured. "Are those axes strapped to their backs?" She was armed and would not have feared three large mortals except that now they had tiny babes with them.

"Do not fear the Beornings. They have been a friend to our folk," said Glorfindel. "Almost all who pass this way would use the Old Ford they maintain to cross the Anduin." He whistled for the horses, then picked up Arman and sat him on his shoulders, while Maeglin placed Aryo in the cloth sling tied across her body, and they walked towards the descendants of bears and men. "We are not dwarves so we need not worry. And they like me enough to usually give me a discount on my toll."

The Beornings looked down at the elven family with amused interest. "We knew not, Golden-haired, that there were still young amongst your kind," said the tallest among the three, in a deep rumbling voice. His beard was grey, but his eyes were still bright and sharp.

"They are treasures that are rare indeed, in these days of our fading, Grimbeorn son of Beorn. And seldom do our young travel," smiled Glorfindel, speaking also in Westron.

"Hail, good friends," said Aryo clearly in Westron, startling his parents. Both he and his brother were gazing spellbound with huge eyes at the tall Beornings with their black or grey beards, ferocious eyebrows, hairy muscular arms, and burly thickset bodies. Silent Arman was so rapt and fascinated that he did not squirm or move for once.

The Beornings burst into laughter after a brief moment of amazement, showing two longer, sharp fangs like a bear's among their teeth. The elflings were smaller than year-old mortal infants. "Hail, little elf!" rumbled Grimbeorn the Old. "That was well-spoken. If you would be friends indeed, come closer." And Grimbeorn took the two elflings in his large, broad hands and sat them one on each shoulder. The twins laughed in delight as the Beorning chieftain turned and led them all to the stone bridge spanning the river.

"Your elflings cross free with me. Just two silver pieces for you, your lady, and your horses."

"My great thanks, son of Beorn," said Glorfindel making the much-discounted payment.

"You are a mighty goblin foe, Golden-haired. My father named you Friend from of old." They began to cross the bridge, the mighty waters of the Anduin rushing beneath it.

"It would seem our goblin-slaying days will soon be past, Lord of the Beornings."

"Aye, may the foul things perish from the earth." The chieftain spat into the river.

"Have there been any sighted here of late?" asked Maeglin.

"Not in these open plains for a seven-month. But have a care in the deep woods, especially with your young ones. They hide."

They arrived on the other side. Glorfindel reaching up to take his sons saw them hold on to the Beorning chieftain's neck.

"No, Atto!" said Aryo. "Again, again!"

Arman made a wordless cooing sound that said the same.

"I can keep them till you return," said Grimbeorn, baring his bear fangs in a smile again.

"You would regret it, Lord of the Beornings, they would try anyone dearly," said Maeglin with a smile.

"Enough, boys! Time to go!" said Glorfindel in Quenya, his tone of voice brooking no nonsense. The twins reluctantly let go of their new friend's neck, and allowed their father to carry them down.

"Till we meet on our return, Grimbeorn the Old!" said Glorfindel.

"May the stars shine upon you. Farewell," said Maeglin.

"A safe journey, ageless ones. Till we meet again."

"_Namárië!_ Farewell!" Aryo chirped. Both twins waved.

"Did you teach Aryo Westron?" Maeglin asked Glorfindel as they mounted the horses and rode towards the forest.

"Not consciously, no. But he was present when Estel's men were passing through to Arnor. He must have picked it up."

"And when will you decide to speak, _pityo?_" said Maeglin to Arman. The infant smiled radiantly back at her and said nothing.

"That means he's still thinking about it. Come, let's race!"

And the two horses swiftly galloped toward the forest that loomed before them.

* * *

><p>In the Greenwood, there were portions where the trees were so tall and the canopy so dense that they rode through twilit gloom. The twins were both sleeping, each in a sling tied around one of their parents.<p>

"It reminds me of Nan Elmoth," Maeglin said, her black eyes glittering. "But less oppressive. There is no dark enchantment here."

"Not any more. But you did not see it when I visited ten years ago. It was evil then."

Glorfindel then fell silent. For suddenly, looking at the back of his beloved as she rode before him on Gilroch, he had been unexpectedly shaken by the memory of her mother Aredhel. Again. Maeglin was in a white tunic, shimmering in the gloom like a moonflower, and her hair, braided for practicality since her motherhood, was today in a style that made her the spitting image of Aredhel on the fateful day Glorfindel had lost the princess in the gloom of Nan Dungortheb.

It had been the first bitter failure of his life.

Pursued by monstrous spiders that made the Mirkwood ones look like docile sheep, the three lords of Gondolin escorting the princess had searched desperately for her for thirteen days. They found themselves helplessly going in circles, all their mental strength needed to withstand the assault of the evil oppression that lay heavily on that Valley of Dreadful Death. Their horses were tormented, trembling, ears down, and showing the whites of their eyes.

It had been Egalmoth who had finally said, weary almost to breaking, "It is hopeless. We can do no more."

"No!" Glorfindel had replied, though he could feel himself beginning to crack under the strain too. "We cannot give up. We cannot lose her. How can we face the king without her?"

They looked at Ecthelion, who remained silent. They had eaten nothing for eleven days, small hardship compared to no water for nearly a week, for they dared not drink from the poisoned springs around them. They had slept not at all, for in that foul place to sleep was never to wake again. The valley pressed in on their spirits like a waking nightmare, whispering despair and dark thoughts. Even as the hardiest warriors of the Noldor, they could sustain it no longer. "Egalmoth is right," Ecthelion had said finally in a bleak voice. "We have done what we can. We shall turn back."

Sorrow and guilt tormented them, thinking of the fair, feckless, free spirit they left behind. Wondering if she lay dead or grievously injured somewhere, or if she had escaped the deadly maze by some extraordinary chance. They would not know the truth for years to come.

Even the naturally resilient and joyous Glorfindel had been haunted by that for a long time. Nagged by the thought that perhaps, had they searched just one more day, they would have found the king's sister. They would have brought her back safely from the visit to her Fëanorian cousins. She would have lived on in the safety of Gondolin. . .which would not have been betrayed. . .which would not have fallen. . .

For, had the lords not lost her in the Valley of Dreadful Death, there would have been no Dark Elf in Aredhel's life, and no Maeglin.

"Are you all right?" Maeglin asked. "You are so quiet."

"I was just thinking of your mother," he replied. "I failed Turgon, I failed her, that day we lost her in Nan Dungortheb. I could not forgive myself for it for so many years. But had I not, there would have been no you. No us. And no them." He looked at his children and at his wife. So much tragedy and grief had come from the loss of Aredhel, that it made him feel wrong, guilty, wicked to find any kind of gladness in what he had gained from it.

"There is something you should know," Maeglin said. "My mother sought to be lost that day. She was trying her best to shake off the three of you. She told me what a pain it was to be chaperoned, how Turgon treated her like she was a child. Do not ever reproach yourself for it again."

As they reached a part where the path broadened, she slowed Gilroch down so Asfaloth could draw alongside her. "There was a time I cursed the day I was born, when I would have wished my mother never rode into Nan Elmoth," she said, her black eyes gazing into his. "But what happened, happened. If we have the one good thing that has come out of all that mess, let us be thankful for it. Let us not regret you failed that day."

And they leaned in for a long kiss over the heads of their sleeping sons.

* * *

><p><em>I followed Tolkien's canon where elf babies hit their developmental milestones rapidly: "They grow slower than mortals though their minds are faster, learning speech before the first year. Their wills master their bodies quickly so they learn to walk, dance, etc by their first year. Elf Children at play would resemble fair happy children of men with little need for governing. Their words, and mastery of their bodies would make them seem older than they appeared in body. Might appear to be seven when actually in their 20's, having adult size 50 and full maturity at 100." ~ Tolkien, J.R.R. (1993). Morgoth's Ring, The History of Middle Earth Vol. 10.<em>

_Sorry if you were disappointed that the Beornings didn't do any bear transformations. I decided to stick to canon for this too - they only transform into bears at night. _


	28. Chapter 28: All in the Family

The beauty of the forest had truly been restored. There were dreamlike stretches where the early summer sun fell in golden rays through the canopy above. There were sunlit clearings where the infants chased butterflies of many jewelled hues and iridescent blue and golden bees. The liquid warbling of many fair birds could be heard each day, and bright flashes of wings seen in the treetops. They came to the Enchanted River, and followed it as it flowed north-east.

"The forests of Oromë are fairer by far, and larger by far," said Glorfindel to Maeglin as they walked by the river, snatching Arman up by the scruff of his neck before the tot fell off the bank. "We could build a house there and enjoy perfect seclusion. No one else for hundreds of miles around."

Maeglin took a red mushroom with white spots out of Aryo's hands before the tot could stuff it into his mouth. He protested. "Not an edible one, Aryo. See the colour?"

"There are beautiful lakes in Oromë's forest into which waterfalls cascade," Glorfindel was saying. "The Great Hunter would welcome us there. A house on a lake shore—what do you think? Good fishing, and every type of fair bird and butterfly and woodland creature in the surrounding woods. No, Arman! – there could be snakes in there." Glorfindel pulled his son out of a hollow log filled with dead leaves.

"Sounds nice," Maeglin conceded, as she and Aryo made friends with a fluffy-tailed squirrel on the trunk of a tree. It was transparent how hard Glorfindel was trying to make going to Aman more bearable for her. She alternated between resenting it and actually considering it. "But it is fair enough here. Perhaps we could stay in the Greenwood."

Glorfindel was momentarily silent, not just from disappointment. Having been momentarily distracted by the squirrel, his eyes were searching for his secondborn.

He looked up a tree.

How had Arman climbed up there so fast?

The father beamed with pride. "Look, _meldanya_! Look how well he can climb!"

Maeglin looked up and blanched.

Right on cue, Arman fell and was caught by his father.

"How did you let that happen?" she said angrily. "He could have been killed!"

"Never—I would definitely have caught him."

"You took your eyes off him!"

"He _is_ incredibly fast, is he not?" said the father with some pride, holding Arman up and nuzzling the laughing child's tummy.

"What if you had not seen him in time?"

"Now I know he can climb, I shall be more watchful."

Then suddenly, as though he heard something else, the warrior's head went up and she saw his expression change, a familiar sternness in his eyes. "Quick," he said to Maeglin. "Get on Gilroch."

The horses at an unspoken signal from Glorfindel trotted back to them. Maeglin unquestioningly swung herself onto Gilroch's back, trusting her husband's instinct for trouble. He passed the infants to her, and in a flash had strung his bow and fitted an arrow, a battle fire not kindled for a long time lighting in his eyes. Asfaloth stood on the other side of Gilroch, defending the dappled stallion's other flank.

Maeglin fitted both babies in her sling. They were silent, sensing their parents' tension. She quickly strung her own bow and fitted an arrow.

The orcs approached from the south. Glorfindel scented the familiar stench and heard their grunts and movements before he saw them. He quickly counted eight of them, and assessed the threat. Axes, blades, no spears, no arrows. He swiftly dropped two of them with arrows. They shrieked a retreat in Black Speech, fleeing at the sight of the bright warrior from Valinor. Battle adrenalin sang in Glorfindel's blood as he swiftly gave chase. How he had missed this rush, he thought, as he felled three of them so swiftly they hardly had time to register the golden-haired warrior's attack. He glanced back briefly and saw Maeglin sending an arrow through the back of a sixth orc, as she struggled to keep Arman from climbing out of his sling. The seventh orc barely knew what hit him as the golden-haired warrior's blade decapitated him. Then, as Glorfindel closed in on the last orc, an arrow from above felled it with an arrow straight through the head.

Disappointment and annoyance flashed over the balrog slayer's fair face.

"_Suilad_!" said a familiar voice from on high.

"_Suilad_, Legolas. That was my orc. Go find your own!"

The prince dropped lightly from above, jumped on the balrog slayer and hugged him.

"This being my father's forest, I have better claim on any orcs in it than you do. It is good to see you, Glorfindel!" The fair-haired prince turned to Maeglin with a radiant smile and said, "_Mae tollen_, my fair lady Lómiel! It is a joy to see you once again, and to finally meet your children!"

Maeglin smiled and dismounted, Aryo still slung around her, but with Arman held firmly under her arm. "_Mae govannen_, Legolas. It has been a long time. How does Gimli?"

"Gimli is very well, and looks forward to welcoming you at Erebor!" said Legolas.

Once Gimli had gotten over the shock of being addressed in ancient Khuzdul by a heavily pregnant she-elf during Aragorn and Arwen's wedding, the dwarf and Maeglin had gotten along famously. Gimli had declared to Glorfindel that his wife would have made a fine dwarrowdam. "Thank you. . .I think," Glorfindel had said, rather taken aback.

Legolas stepped forward and smiled at the babies. "_Suilad, _little ones!"

"_Suilad_," said Aryo shyly. Arman gave Legolas his brightest smile, climbed swiftly out of his mother's arms and hurled himself onto the prince, whose pale gold hair and blue eyes were identical in colour to his. Legolas caught the baby, and gazed stunned into his face. Maeglin and Glorfindel looked at each other.

"That's Arman. He looks a little like you, does he not?" said Glorfindel lightly.

"That is an understatement," said Legolas, not minding as Arman reached out to grab a handful of princely hair as fair and silken as his own. He turned to look at Glorfindel as though suddenly seeing the elflord's azure eyes for the first time, and looked thoughtful.

"Legolas, is it safe here?" said Maeglin, coming to her beloved's rescue. "Where did the orcs come from?"

Glorfindel quickly took Arman from Legolas before the tot could stuff the prince's hair into his mouth.

"There are some orcs who have made a nest in the caverns of Emyn Duir, the mountains south of here."

"How many?" asked Glorfindel, his face lighting up.

"We are not sure. Perhaps a hundred. We plan to mount an attack to wipe them out shortly. The problem is the caverns are too treacherous a maze to battle in, and they run deep. It was once our stronghold before we were driven north."

Glorfindel was almost glowing with anticipation.

As they journeyed north-east to the Halls of the Woodland Realm, Legolas unburdened his frustrations. His father was against his going to Ithilien, and had forbidden any of his people to go. Like his great-uncle Lord Celeborn and his father Oropher before him, Thranduil was a proud Sinda. These Eldar of Doriath had turned aside from the Great Journey in the time of starlight. To refuse to ever resume it was a matter of ancient pride for those who had rejected the light of the Trees for the light of the maia Melian, and who had rejected the west a second time after the War of Wrath. All attempts by Legolas to reason or plead with his father had failed. It had reached a point where Thranduil would react in cold anger at any mention of Ithilien or the sea, and Legolas spoke of them no longer.

"Do you wonder?" said Glorfindel. "He would lose you. His greatest fear, I am sure, is that you sail to the west."

Legolas was quiet, his blue eyes more bleak than Glorfindel had ever seen them before.

"He has lost me already," the prince finally said.

Glorfindel was shocked. This was Legolas, ever the obedient and dutiful son.

"I stay because he has enjoined me to," said the prince in a resigned voice. "I shall not oppose his will. I shall give my strength to serve and obey him as my father and king. But my heart is in Ithilien, and my _fae_ yearns to the sea which sings to me. I love these woods and I always shall. My heart rejoices to see it fair and flourishing as it was of old. But I belong here no longer. And whilst I am here I do not truly live."

Maeglin listened silently as she rode behind, on Gilroch. Thinking of a day Glorfindel in Ennor might echo those same sentiments, as the sea called him home.

* * *

><p>The visitors had just settled their horses in the stables and were heading towards the entrance of the halls when the vast stone gates opened and Thranduil emerged in his riding clothes. Just as Arman went hurtling down the path at breakneck speed straight to him.<p>

Glorfindel could and probably should have intercepted the child, but chose instead to watch in fascination. He was not alone. Both Maeglin and Legolas slowed down their steps. They all watched.

King Thranduil had the strangest look on his face as the tiny elfling with pale-gold hair latched onto his riding boot. They watched as the king, after staring for a moment at the baby attached to his riding boot, stooped to lift Arman into his arms and gazed at the elfling much as his son had earlier. Looked into azure blue eyes with dark lashes, smiling at him. Looked at the curling wisps of white-gold hair like a halo on the baby's head.

The elfling smiled shyly at Thranduil.

"_You have to tell him someday_." Maeglin said to Glorfindel in thought, as she picked up Aryo, who had been trying to stuff a handful of hay from the stables into her boot.

"_Are you mad? Tell Thranduil that the Sindarin mother he adored seduced my golodh father? You'll find yourself widowed before you can say 'Kinslaying'. Either he hears it one day from our mother herself, or not at all_," replied Glorfindel in thought as he picked pieces of hay out of her boot.

Legolas stifled a smile as Arman reached out and took the crown from the Woodland King's hair and begin to stuff a corner of it into his mouth.

Glorfindel was at the king's side in the next instant, and Arman actually bawled and kicked as his father pulled him out of Thranduil's arms. "_Le suilon_, King Thranduil. Please excuse my son." The warrior smiled apologetically as he handed the slightly mauled crown back to the king.

"No matter," said Thranduil coolly, examining the crown in his hand rather absently. His gaze then raked over the visitors. He gave a chilly smile. "Lord Glorfindel. And your whole family, I see. What a pleasant surprise." Glorfindel gave Legolas a sharp look but the prince was gazing at his father impassively as he walked up together with Maeglin. Two attendants followed with the visitors' bags.

"King Thranduil, this is my lady Lómiel," said Glorfindel, as Maeglin reached his side. "My other son Arinnáro. And this is Arman, whom you have met."

"_Le suilon_, King Thranduil," said Maeglin in a voice as chilly as the king's. Thranduil met her piercing obsidian eyes, saw them proud and defiant, and was amused and intrigued. The corners of his mouth curled, and his superior smile angered her even more.

Because she knew that once he saw her black eyes, she was labelled as Avarin. Because she remembered the days Nan Elmoth was a vassal of Doriath, and the condescension of the Doriathrim nobility to her Avarin father and herself. The same condescension she felt right now.

Glorfindel saw his beloved's proud back stiffen, and put his free hand lightly on her waist. She lowered her gaze slightly at his touch, but they still glinted with golden fire.

"Welcome to Eryn Lasgalen," said Thranduil. "I am sorry that someone has been remiss in informing me of your visit." Reprimand weighted his words, and his eyes rested on his son.

"I informed you before I sent the invitation, Adar. But I was already in the forest when the bird brought Glorfindel's reply, and I have just only returned now." Which immediately told Glorfindel that Legolas had spent a whole month hiding away in the forest. "There are orcs still in Emyn Duir. I have been hunting, and killed a total of twenty-one. Glorfindel encountered and killed another seven three days back."

"Six. My wife shot one," said Glorfindel, giving Maeglin her fair due. For that, she jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow and scowled slightly. She would have shot more if she had not a slingful of squirming babies to handle.

"Glorfindel could help us exterminate that orc nest, Adar."

"Not necessary I am sure. Let Lord Glorfindel tend to his family. He is not here to deal with a handful of orcs we can easily handle." The King's eyes lingered on Arman again. "Let our guests be shown to their room," he continued to Legolas, "And we shall speak further about Emyn Duir when I return."

Arman was looking back at Thranduil with huge eyes. "I must say, he really likes you." said Glorfindel. _No accounting for taste_, he thought.

Thranduil smiled at the infant. A very rare, fleeting smile, and a genuine one this time, that made him look young and boyish for a moment. "He is a fine boy," the King said. "His colouring is rather different from your own. Or your lady's." He glanced at them both.

"Yes. Strange, is it not?" Glorfindel smiled brightly at Thranduil and gave a light shrug. "Enjoy your ride, your majesty. It is a beautiful day. Eryn Lasgalen is all that I remembered, and more."

Legolas led the family through the gates to the halls. "Emmë, Atto, where are we going now?" Aryo was saying in Quenya as he was carried through the doors.

"We must speak Sindarin here, Aryo. _Nana, Ada, mas ledhiam_?" said Glorfindel. Silent Arman looked at Thranduil over his father's shoulder.

The vast stone doors closed behind them.

Thranduil stared after them for a while after they had gone, lost in thought. Then he discarded the damaged crown by tossing it casually into the hands of a non-plussed attendant, and walked swiftly to where his spirited horse was waiting, pawing the ground restively.

* * *

><p>"Tomorrow, Glorfindel and I will try to enter the caves and scout around," said Legolas. "We will bring the old maps, but they are a thousand years old and unlikely to be accurate."<p>

Thranduil frowned as they looked down on the maps of the forest and of the old cavern system of Emyn Duir on the table before them. "Just the two of you? Bring four of the guard."

"The fewer the better so as to go unnoticed. Glorfindel is like twenty warriors in one anyway," said Legolas, smiling at Glorfindel.

"He shines like twenty as well," said Thranduil, cuttingly. "Hardly wise, for secret movement through dark caves."

"I'll wear a cloak and hood," sighed Glorfindel.

"Add on a mask. And gloves," said Thranduil drily.

Glorfindel laughed at the thought, but did not object. "Whatever it takes," he said.

"And what will the lady and infants do while you two explore caves?" asked Thranduil.

Glorfindel's smile faded. How would Maeglin manage Arman and Aryo by herself?

"She will have two attendants to wait on her and the children," Legolas reassured Glorfindel. "And the children could play in the private gardens, could they not, Adar?"

Thranduil considered it. "Certainly," he said.

* * *

><p>The Woodland King stood by a window and watched as Glorfindel and Legolas rode out the next morning, talking animatedly to each other, and brooded. It should have been good to see Legolas looking more cheerful again, but the father could only feel a stab of jealous anger at how much pleasure the prince took in the <em>golodh<em> warrior's company.

Just the previous night, Legolas had sat across from the king at the royal dining table, giving polite answers in a flat voice, and gazing at his plate with distant, dreamy eyes and averted face. Already an ocean apart from his father in spirit.

The Woodland King heard his son's bright laugh at something Glorfindel had said, and glowered at the balrog-slayer's disappearing back.

Thranduil remembered the time he and Glorfindel had similarly been friends. He recalled the day, late in the Second Age, that he had brought the balrog-slaying hero home to the Greenwood. As the Woodland Prince led the seneschal of Imladris into the throne room, he had watched his beloved father Oropher turn pale upon his throne, his eyes frozen on the face of the golden-haired warrior. The prince had watched bewildered as Oropher's mouth hardened in an angry line and his eyes burned with something close to hatred. The Imladhrim seneschal, at a loss as to why he evoked such hostility, decided that perhaps he should reassure Oropher that he had never ever played any part in any kinslayings. As part of this attempt to mollify the king, the warrior introduced himself by emphasizing he had spent most of his life in Gondolin, and been killed there.

Oropher, still pale, had asked a strange question: "And where begotten?"

"Not in Valinor, your majesty, not at all. In Beleriand."

An even stranger question still: "The year?"

At the reply, the king's face had gone so livid, Prince Thranduil had murmured something and hastily pulled his _golodh_ friend out of the throne room.

"What did I do wrong? Was it something I said? Is there something wrong with my Sindarin?" Glorfindel had said, quite upset and bewildered.

"Nothing is wrong with your Sindarin," Thranduil had said, equally upset and bewildered.

"Well. I think I had better leave at once," said Glorfindel. No point causing a serious diplomatic incident with his presence. He would have to report this to Elrond, and perhaps Erestor would have to visit the Greenwood shortly to smooth things out.

Knowing his father, Thranduil had agreed. He had walked his friend out to the stables, and watched him ride his white horse away.

His father Oropher had not spoken one word about the incident ever again. Had never again acknowledged the existence of the seneschal, and behaved as though the visit had never taken place.

It went without saying that Imladris never sent the golden-haired warrior to the Greenwood ever again in Oropher's time.

During the Battle of Dagorlad, Glorfindel had gone to Oropher's side, cut down the Orcs around him and borne the severely wounded king off the battlefield. It was unjust, perhaps, but Thranduil wondered if Oropher, seeing who his saviour was, had received a death blow to his pride and heart in that moment. Thranduil owed his own life on that bitter battlefield to Glorfindel and the Imladhrim. But deep within, part of him blamed the warrior for his father's death. And once his beloved father was buried and his memory enshrined sacred in Thranduil's mind, it would have sullied that memory to continue friendship with one who had grieved Oropher so much in life.

Glorfindel and Legolas had by now disappeared into the forest. Thranduil turned away and swept down the corridors of his halls, his long robes trailing behind him. He entered his private gardens. Attendants following him poured out wine for him as he seated himself on his usual chair.

He watched as two tiny elflings ran around the far end of the garden, watched over by their black-haired mother and two Silvan attendants.

His eyes rested on the child with white-gold hair. An infant so much like Legolas at the same age that his heart ached to see it. The laughing little blue eyes, the sweet, adoring smile. So full of life, so innocent. So happy.

He remembered the face of his beautiful son at every dinner for the past year again. The remote gaze of the sky blue eyes, already so far away. Lost in a reverie as he pushed food around his plate, Legolas was already wandering in a forest in the south, dreaming of the sea. . .

Pain clenched the father's heart. His only son. His only child.

He would do what he had to do to keep him away from the Sundering Sea.

Thranduil drank his wine and watched Arman climb a tree swiftly, his mother desperately grabbing him by the seat of his pants.

How had Glorfindel fathered a child with pale-gold hair? Thranduil looked at the black-haired elleth with the children. The suspicions playing in his mind as he finished his wine were not pleasant ones.

They mostly revolved around the golden-haired sons of Finarfin who had visited Doriath so often. Who had been welcomed as kin by the great king Thingol. The brothers had all been slain by the time Thranduil was born, but he knew, looking at the Lady Galadriel, how they would have looked. Tall, with deep, rich gold hair. Just like Glorfindel.

He thought tenderly of his mother. Her beauty, her sweetness, her devotion to himself and his father. The memory of her death still brought so much pain he seldom thought of it. He had only seen eleven cycles of the sun when the kinslayers descended on Doriath. The noise, the screams, the terror. The blood. On his mother's shimmering blue-gray dress, on her long white-gold hair. He had watched it spread, dark crimson, over the stones of the floor. The tiny child had looked up in terror at the tall _golodh_ warrior towering over him, over the body of the beloved mother so brutally struck down. He had trembled before the warrior with dark hair falling in waves, silver eyes blazing fiery like a demon's, a face shining with inhuman, terrible beauty. The child quaked before blood-spattered armour, before the bright cruel sword at his throat that still dripped with his mother's blood. As Thranduil had cowered on the floor, clinging to his mother's body, he had waited for the sword to pierce him.

Instead, as the demon's eyes stared down on Thranduil, their fire had faded, and the silver eyes had glittered softly. The point of the sword withdrew.

Then the demon had turned, and with the swirl of a dark-red cloak, had quickly walked away.

Thranduil had placed his hand on his mother's face. It was so cold. Her blue eyes were fixed on something far away. Her lips were moving. Shaping a word. Or a name. He could not make it out.

It had not been his name, or his father's.

A _golodh_ demon had taken his mother's life and ripped his childhood away from him. Now, the more Thranduil thought of it, they might have done more to her. As he drank his fourth goblet of wine, he brooded on the accursed golden-haired _golodhrim_ who had been so welcomed into Doriath by their king. Thought of one of them taking his lovely mother in the flower of her youth. Forcing himself on her. It filled him with cold rage to think of it.

He felt surer of it the more that he thought.

As his father Oropher had been sure, the moment he had set eyes on Glorfindel's face, and seen his wife's lovely eyes in the face of a scion of Finarfin.

That Glorfindel might thus be his half-brother did nothing to endear the warrior to Thranduil. Not when he came from a race of ravishers and murderers. The king remembered the sadness he had seen haunting his mother's beautiful eyes. He understood it now. And held Glorfindel accountable for it.

The laughter of an elfling. He watched the pale-haired infant, so like another that it could be his very own blood running across the lawn. And he found he could not ascribe any sin of its fathers to it. He could only gaze, and recall days long gone, and yearn.

Thranduil invited Glorfindel's wife to join him for lunch in the garden. She was not much of a conversationalist, but he did not particularly care as he idly admired the delicate loveliness of her face and the curve of her throat and bosom. It was always pleasant to be surrounded by beautiful things. She sat proud as a princess, and spoke to him courteously, but without much deference, as one used to supping with kings. She coolly pushed all sharp and breakable objects on the table out of range as her son lunged at them. Her elder son was being cared for by the attendants, who already adored him, but the younger one needed special handling and she had apologized for bringing him to the table. Thranduil had been most pleased to have the boy near. The king summoned an attendant to cut the mother's food for her since her hands were too occupied with her squirming son to manage a knife.

She made some attempt at small talk, mentioning that Elrond's sons would soon be heading to Gondor to visit their sister and foster brother.

"King Elessar and Queen Arwen are expecting their first child," she said.

"Ah," said Thranduil. "An heir early, one hopes."

"Not unless the laws of the land change. It is a daughter."

"What a pity," said the king, as he sliced his venison.

He saw her eyes narrow ever so slightly and glint with annoyance. He was certain as she stabbed that next piece of venison with her fork that she was visualizing his jugular. His lips curved in a small smile.

As the dessert was served, the infant slipped under the table. Tossing her napkin on the table, the mother quickly followed him under. The king looked down as tiny arms latched around his left calf, and stooped to pick up the infant just as the mother's hands made a grab for him. Thranduil smiled down at the shocked black eyes looking up at him from under the table, as she crouched at his feet like a supplicant. And admired the view down the neck of her gown. She flushed and swiftly crawled out from under the table, and reached out her hands to retrieve her son.

Thranduil held up a hand. "Leave him here a while. He seems perfectly comfortable."

And it was true. Arman sat on Thranduil's lap and gazed up at him with huge eyes. He was not fidgeting.

"It would appear you have a calming effect on him, King Thranduil," she said, wonderingly.

"So it would seem."

As the mother retook her seat, Thranduil leaned back in his chair, goblet in hand, looking down at the tot. Arman was peering into the contents of the king's wine goblet, deeply fascinated by its ruby depths. A faint smile hovered on the king's lips.

The mother's eyes narrowed. Thranduil's blue eyes met her black ones ever so briefly and glinted wickedly. Dipping a finger into his Dorwinion, the king placed one drop of the wine on the infant's tongue. Arman tasted it thoughtfully, then hugged himself in delight with his little arms and gave the king a huge, blissful smile.

The mother froze. _That presumptuous balrog- %#ing peacock._

With the slightest hint of steel in her calmly courteous voice, the mother said, "Your majesty, it is not our custom at Imladris to give our children any alcohol before their fifteenth year." Especially not a potent Dorwinion vintage.

"It was but a drop," said Thranduil, lifting his eyebrows slightly. "And he enjoyed it, did you not, little one_?_"

Arman smiled enthusiastically.

"He also enjoys grabbing at knife blades. That does not mean it is healthy for him."

"Legolas too had a little drop now and then at his age. It did him no harm." He dipped his finger again and gave a delighted Arman another drop of Dorwinion. On his lap, he saw another infant in another time.

The mother seethed with outrage.

"Your majesty has borne with this imposition most graciously, but it is time for the children's nap. I beg that you will excuse us."

Arman was playing with the ends of Thranduil's pale gold hair, but not trying to stuff them in his mouth. The mother actually wished he would.

"Not at all. We have been having quite a delightful time together, your son and I."

If he tries to give my son another drop, I am going to break his wrist, so help me Eru.

"Say thank you and goodbye to the king, Arman," said the mother.

Arman gave a happy gurgle, stood up on Thranduil's lap and with tiny arms wide open, threw himself against the king's chest and snuggled his little cheek against his neck.

And Thranduil had to fight against the lump that rose in his throat.

* * *

><p>Legolas and Glorfindel came back glowing from the success of their adventure, and full of excitement that the secret entrances marked in the ancient maps were still accessible and had allowed them entrance to the caverns unmarked by the orcs. Based on their day's surveillance, the orcs probably numbered about two hundred, and the elf warriors had managed to update the maps to the cavern system. The next few days would be spent planning the assault with the Greenwood guard.<p>

After spending some time reporting all they found to Thranduil, Glorfindel returned to the guest suite for a bath—the caves had been quite filthy and had a lot of bats—and as he sat on the bed towelling his hair dry, he told Maeglin everything that had happened. The children, tired out from the day, were asleep in an adjoining room.

When he had finished, she told him about her day with the children, and ended with what Thranduil had done.

"Just two drops? That's harmless, _melda_."

"Not according to a study done in the First Age—"

He raised an eyebrow. "Is this from that book that Erestor lent you?" Shortly after they arrived home from Lothlórien, Erestor had slipped her a book from the library titled _Principles and Practices for the Raising of Healthy and Whole Elf-Children_. Glorfindel had flipped through it and declared it paranoid parenting.

She glared at Glorfindel. "Any _amil_ would agree alcohol is not good for a developing elfling."

"Oh, come on—did your father never slip you any? Ecthelion used to give me a secret sip at every feast from his cup."

"Exactly! _Secret_—and why? Because Itarillë would have brained him is why."

"Yes," he conceded, "She was furious at him. But we're talking here about _two drops!_ Don't overreact. And please do not blame every little problem in his development from this point onwards on two drops of Dorwinion. So if he doesn't talk, it will be because of the two drops—"

"—my father first gave me wine when I was _twelve_, not two!" she snapped.

"—and if he isn't a loremaster like Pengolodh, it will be because of the two drops—"

"—anyone with a grain of sense would know that two years old is _much_ too young—"

"—and if he runs off and marries a dwarf, it will be because of the two drops—" His eyes were laughing as he spoke, and he caught her by the waist.

"—and he had no right giving intoxicating substances to my child without my permission and especially when I had objected," she said angrily, breaking away from him.

"That is true," said Glorfindel. "Thranduil _is_ an ass in that way."

"And I caught him looking down my gown."

"That misbegotten son of a misshapen orc!"

"_Men!_" said Maeglin in disgust, throwing herself back onto the bed.

Then she heard herself.

She froze. And looked at Glorfindel out of the corner of her eye as she lay there.

He was looking at her with his hands on his hips, his blue eyes dancing with laughter.

"Let all Eä witness," he began in a mock-declamatory voice, "In this second year of the Fourth Age—"

"I did not mean _anything_ by that—" She covered her face.

"—a watershed in the history of Maeglin Lómion—" He climbed onto the bed and caught hold of her as she tried to crawl away from him.

"It just came out! Will you stop being such an ass—" She pushed him off and rolled onto him, punching him.

"—a defining moment, as it were—" He caught hold of her and hugged her to his chest.

"Shut up, you idiot!" She squirmed and kicked at his shin.

"—when, against all the brute oppression and injustices of the idiotic _néri_—" He said, still holding her tight as she struggled.

"Not another word if you value being able to have any more children—" She snarled.

"—the prince of Gondolin didst cry out, in unison with all of Eä's gentle _nísi_—"

"Ahh! I hate you!"

"—'_MEN!_'" He concluded in tragicomic mimicry of her disgusted tone, and dissolved into fits of helpless laughter.

He rolled on top of her and smiled as he gazed lovingly into her eyes. "Look. I am sorry that I am going off to fight orcs and leaving you holding the children. Just a few days more, I promise. Then we shall go to Erebor and Dale for a week, and you may talk to the dwarves all day long about forges and furnaces and stones and ores and the latest techniques in making lethal weapons and shiny stones, and I will take care of the babies. Is that fair?"

"Fair enough," she agreed.

"And I get to keep my ability to have more children?"

"For now," she said, and they kissed.

* * *

><p>It was late summer when Glorfindel and Maeglin's family departed from the Halls of the Woodland King to head back to Imladris. Legolas was to journey with them to the edge of the Anduin plains, and he was radiant with excitement and happiness when he met them at the stables.<p>

"Adar has just spoken to me. He has given his blessing for me to go to Ithilien next spring! With up to a hundred of the woodland folk, if I can find enough willing to go!"

"That is wonderful!" said Glorfindel.

"But what brought about his change of heart?" asked Maeglin.

"I have no clue. But he did ask me to give this to Arman." It was a tiny bow and quiver set. "It looks identical to one he did give me when I was four years old. And," he continued, "So that poor Aryo should not be left out, I found another one for him as well." He pulled out another set.

"We will come to visit you in Ithilien so you can teach them how to shoot," said Glorfindel.

"Rot! This from one who received the Vala Araw Tauron's tutelage?" scoffed Legolas, as he ruffled the hair of his tiny cousins. "No pathetic excuses are needed. Just come to visit me."

And as they rode out into the forest, Thranduil watched them from his high window.

The pain of his imminent loss contending with the joy of receiving his son's smile and embrace again.


	29. Chapter 29: Children of the Morning

The boy scanned the paper on the table, his quill poised in the air. As he dipped his quill in ink and wrote his solutions to the mathematics questions, the coolness of his focus, the stern absorption, had something unchildlike in it. It was mathematics and history that day. Over the past week, he and his brother had sat for tests on various subjects: languages—Quenya, Sindarin, and Westron—geography and sciences, music and art, and cultural studies on the peoples of Ennor.

The twins were fifteen this year. As Aryo sat for his test in the library, his mother browsed through the books on the shelves and reflected on what she would teach her sons about the Second Kinslaying come autumn. All the texts were written from the viewpoint of the Iathrim, the elves of Doriath who had survived the massacres. She wondered what a perspective from the viewpoint of the Fëanárions would have been like. She would like her sons to at least consider it.

Mathematics completed, the boy pushed the papers aside, and contemplated another sheet of paper with the essay question on the causes of the fall of Nargothrond on it, written in Erestor's flowing, elegant hand. Aryo lifted piercing grey eyes to gaze out of the window as he thought, sitting back in his chair with one hand spinning his quill, his other hand idly twisting a strand of bright golden hair that had escaped his braids.

Maeglin looked outside the library window, across the meadow to where Glorfindel and their younger son were sitting high in a tree, also sitting for the same tests.

When the twins began their schooling at nine, they had found that Arman, like his father at that age, could not sit at a table for longer than ten minutes. And while sitting, the pale-haired child remained restless: balancing his chair on its two back legs, kicking his small feet against the legs of his desk, doodling caricatures of his tutor with his quill, and interrupting the lesson with incessant questions and comments. It had driven Erestor, their first tutor, almost crazy. The lessons had also bored Arman so witless that he had been driven to amuse himself in various ways, such as planting spiders on the arachnophobic councillor's braids and robes, and sprinking itching herb powder down the councillor's neck.

Within a fortnight, Erestor had declined to teach Arman any further. And was loath to allow the boy anywhere within two yards of his person.

So, Glorfindel had done for Arman what Ecthelion, Egalmoth and Rog had done for him—devised ways for him to study on the move. He, Elladan and Elrohir gave Arman lessons while riding on horseback, or while climbing the hills. He got Arman to study for tests by pacing up and down the length of the corridors of the great house, cheerfully singing out mathematics formulae and dates from history. Reading or writing of homework was done while swinging on a seat that Glorfindel had hung with ropes from a large tree. And now, the pale-haired child wrote out his exam papers sitting in the fork of a high branch in a tree, while the wind rocked him gently. Since he inevitably spilled his inkpots, his writing was done with graphite sticks made by his mother. Maeglin watched her son hanging upside down by his knees from a branch while he contemplated his answer, just as his brother was doing seated on a chair in the library. She frowned with concern, then relaxed as Glorfindel positioned himself in the branches below to catch the child if he fell. In his short life, Arman had already previously fractured his arm, a collar bone, and his ankle, and was still fearless.

Over the pages of the history book open before her, Maeglin looked back at Aryo, and caught her breath as she suddenly recognized in her son the thoughtful, strong gaze that had commanded a kingdom.

In her son, she suddenly saw the face of Turgon her King. She could almost see the ideas shaping in that small head. Once they were fully formed, the boy sat upright and moved his quill purposefully over the paper, pausing only for light dips into the nearby ink pot.

Turgon. The King had honoured his dead sister's son in every way he could. Many in Gondolin had called it a blind love, for it seemed the boy could do no wrong. Almost as soon as Aredhel was laid in her tomb, the young half-blood had been officially declared the prince and regent of Gondolin. Ten years later, at the tender age of sixty, he had been appointed as the youngest Lord of Gondolin and given his own house. And years later, when he had re-appeared after a mysterious absence of three months from the city, there had been no punishment, no retribution for flouting the King's edict. And no explanations sought or given.

But it had not been love. . . Early in his sojourn in the city, the piercing black eyes of the young prince had searched the storm-grey eyes of his uncle and monarch seeking affection, and seen the truth.

It was guilt. For the little sister the king had failed to protect. For the boy the king had orphaned. Turgon saw his dead sister each time he looked at his nephew's fair face, and the dark elf he had executed each time he looked into the prince's obsidian eyes. From the beginning the king had seen, in his prince and regent, blood tainting forever the city that had been so white. . .

Maeglin had seen with a pang who it was that Turgon truly loved. His daughter, who brought a smile to his face each time she appeared. His golden-haired Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, who alone could make him laugh. And later, the noble and generous _adan_ from whom he would not withhold even his greatest treasure. And last of all, his half-elven grandchild. All fair, golden-haired creatures of light, as the black-haired prince had retreated deeper and deeper into his own shadows...

The last test papers finished, Glorfindel and Arman ran back to the house, their voices carrying bright and happy in the summer air. Arman thought and wrote much more quickly than his brother and thus usually completed his work much earlier. And once he had begun speaking, Arman had truly been difficult to shut up. Maeglin frowned as Aryo, distracted momentarily, looked up.

Maeglin left the library and met Glorfindel and Arman as they reached the top of the stairs, and shushed her younger son silent. "Stay out here until he finishes. No whistling, no singing, no talking," she warned Arman.

The parents stepped into the library and looked at their firstborn. The child was rapt in concentration, the quill travelling over the paper. Maeglin, as she seated herself at a table near the door, spoke to Glorfindel in their thoughts: "Look, _vennoya_. Is he not like Turukáno?"

Glorfindel dropped himself into the chair next to hers and looked over at his son. It was true that for all the boy had the hair and eyes of Finarfin's line, his features and spirit seemed to belong to another side of the family.

"Yes, Nolofinwë's line runs strong there," Glorfindel replied mind-to-mind. "But it is not Turukáno I see. Look again, _vesseya_. It is _you_." He leaned his cheek against her black hair. "It is you, as you studied so intently under Pengolodh, and I watched you from the gallery above the library at Gondolin." He kissed her neck near the ear. "It is you as you might have been, without the shadow of darkness in your heart from Nan Elmoth and all that followed."

"And why were you watching me from the gallery?" It was true that the prince had been so engrossed in his studies that he had never noticed the golden-haired lord watching from above.

"I was checking out the competition," his thoughts replied, teasingly, as he stretched himself in his chair with a smile. "My female following had dropped considerably once the new young lord with jet black eyes and hair arrived in Gondolin,"

"What rot. You did not trust me. From the start."

"You cannot blame me. You were always rather dark and disturbing. The all-black garb, even after mourning was over. The piercing gaze and unsmiling face."

As Glorfindel leaned back in the chair and stretched out his long legs before him, crossed at the ankles, he tilted his head thoughtfully. "But maybe it was also that deep down inside of me, even then, I knew that under all that rage there was something. . . special. That deep down inside of you was the one that was meant for me." He had a way of facetiously, so flippantly dropping these little gems that made it impossible to know how much truth lay beneath the joke.

"Now _that_ is truly disturbing," her thoughts replied.

"Which is why we deserve each other."

Aryo finished his last sentence with a flourish. He ran with his papers to his parents, submitted them with a radiant smile, and ran out of the library.

"Come on, Aryo! Race you to the village!"

"How did you find the papers? That second math question was fiendishly tricky—"

And the two boys disappeared down the stairs.

"At least you stopped wearing black here," Glorfindel said aloud as he looked through the mathematics scripts, and noted with annoyance the number of careless mistakes Arman had made.

"That had nothing to do with preference, and everything with availability," said Maeglin as she glanced through the history essays, and noted Arman's untidy handwriting and his interesting insights. "There was a dearth of elfmaid dresses in black. Anyway," she reflected, "Black did not reflect my mood any longer."

Glorfindel scanned a brilliantly executed mathematics equation in Aryo's paper. He admired the economy and elegance with which his elder son had managed to solve, in three steps, an equation that usually took eight.

"Well, I still like best what you wore when you first got my attention," he said lightly, as he passed the papers to her. "Nothing."

Their eyes met and held.

"I shall go now to leave the scripts on Erestor's desk," she said, standing up slowly.

"Or, you can lock the library door for a while. And give the scripts to Erestor later."

Maeglin walked to the library door and locked it. She turned back to the golden-haired elflord with a predatory gleam in her eyes.

* * *

><p>More traffic between Arnor and Gondor was passing through Imladris valley in those days; not only the King's soldiers and officials, but common folk seeking new lands in this time of peace.<p>

Following the exodus of most of the Imladhrim to the west, most of the dwellings in the valley lay abandoned. Those that remained were a few Sindar, and some Avari, still reluctant to undertake the great journey. The fields further from the house lay untended.

Seeing the valley of Rivendell so fair, with fertile fields lying untilled and fallow, and meadows with sweet grass for grazing, and fair cottages sitting empty and deserted, the first mortals had begun to stay. It had only been a matter of time before it happened. Over the first fifteen years of the Fourth Age, a small settlement of _edain_ grew in the south of the valley near the banks of the Bruinen: a handful of families, growing in number with each year. They accepted the Lordship of Elladan and Elrohir over the valley. At times, they sought smithing and healing services at the Great House, and paid with their crops and animals. At others, the household went to them to buy such produce as they did not grow or rear themselves.

And the _edain_ had children. As the twins reached their fifteenth birthday, there were already twelve little mortal lads and lasses of different ages and sizes. Whenever they had time between lessons and training and hunting trips, Aryo and Arman would run out and find their friends to play.

On this summer day, finally freed from the tyranny of tests, the twins' eyes sparkled bright when they found their friends filling pig's bladders and lengths of cow gut with water at the duck pond. As the war of water missiles broke out, with much laughter and shouts, Aryo spotted an unfamiliar girl reading by the pond under the shade of a tree.

The twins had learned early that mortals were no match for the speed, strength and skill of elflings, and that to keep play going they would have to hold back and slow down—without making it look apparent. That gave Aryo leisure, even as he stayed in the game, to examine the newcomer who sat with feet dangling in the cool water—a girl with brown curls who ignored the noise of the group as she bent her head over a yellowed book with a brown cover. He could only see the long brown lashes of her lowered eyes, the curve of her rosy cheek. He was drawn by how intently she looked at her book. He wanted to see her face.

So when a pig's bladder came to his hand, he hurled it at her, and it burst upon her dress. Glowering ferociously, the girl stood up in the shallows of the pond with her book sodden in her hand, and her dress half-soaked. Aryo grinned at her, gazing entranced at angry eyes of brown honey, at a sweet mouth twisted into a scowl in a heart-shaped face, at a charming upturned nose. Moving away from the others, he walked up to her and waded into the shallows. She was taller than him by a head. "What is your name? Mine's Aryo—"

Honey-brown eyes flashed as she gave him a hard push.

And Aryo found himself lying on his back in the knee-high shallows of the duck pond, sputtering and coughing, gazing at the blue sky and white clouds swirling above, and quite in love.

The following day, Aryo returned to seek his brown-haired girl out. He had dragged Arman with him to follow her to her home the day before and seen which cottage she had returned to. Today, fortune smiled upon the older twin. As her father repaired the roof of the cottage they had newly occupied, the girl was seated on a bench under a tree stitching a shirt.

She raised her head, saw him and resumed her sewing.

"Good morning," he said in his best Westron. "I am sorry I ruined your book yesterday. I brought you something." On the twins' bookshelves were some Westron books that probably had belonged to Estel as a boy. Aryo had brought her two—one, a collection of tales of Númenor. The other, some folk tales passed down among mortal men. She set down her sewing as he held them out to her. She took them reverently. Began to flip through one, and frowned at the words.

"Who taught you to read?"

"My grandda before he died," she said. "I know only a little."

"I can teach you."

She looked at the golden-haired child with amused condescension.

"I am fifteen this year. I can read very well," he said haughtily.

She laughed. "Fifteen? And you no bigger than my baby brother that's just turned six!"

"Elves grow different than mortals," he said, drawing himself as tall as he could. He was already tall for his age. Many of his household said so. He might be as tall as his father one day. He sat next to her on the bench and looked up into her soft brown eyes. "How old are you?" he asked.

"I am ten next week."

"Please accept this as a gift for your birthday, then. So. . . am I forgiven?"

She smiled and showed a dimple. "If you can teach me to read, elfling."

* * *

><p>On hunting trips, Glorfindel taught the boys how to give Eru thanks for the life they took as they shot their prey. How to thank their prey too, for the gift of its life to feed theirs. How to kill no more than what was needed, and waste nothing. On this autumn day, they had a rabbit and three pheasants to feed the whole household of twenty-three for dinner. They were singing as they made their way back when Glorfindel shushed them.<p>

"Listen."

The howl of wargs from the northern pass.

"Get up high, and stay there!" He ordered his boys, pushing them towards the nearest tree.

Wargs did occasionally come into the valley now. Glorfindel waited till his sons were sitting high in the tree, holding the rabbit and pheasants. Then he turned and walked towards the howling of the wargs. He spotted them bounding down the hillslopes. Nine in all. They looked lean and hungry.

The boys as usual had been fooling around on the way home and wasting arrows the way their father used to do, he thought ruefully – showing off by splitting a first shaft down the centre. That left Glorfindel with just four arrows against nine wargs, and his two hunting knives. No problem at all.

The warrior's eyes were sparking white fire with anticipation. He moved purposefully towards the wolves, fitting an arrow to his bow as he did. Four wargs at the front of the pack fell in quick succession, an arrow in each. He then drew his knives and continued walking calmly towards the remaining five as they bounded towards him. He had slain three of them when he saw, with lurching heart, a blur of pale gold to his left at the periphery of his vision.

"Arman!"

His younger son hurled himself at a warg, wielding his own hunting knife like a sword. In a flash, Glorfindel had caught the boy up by the waist and the warg lay dead with the balrog slayer's blade in the side of his neck.

"Atto, I _had_ him! Put me down!" protested the child. But already the father had dropped him and was pulling out his blade and turning his head to the right, where he saw the last warg leap towards his elder son five yards away, as the child stood with his blade ready.

Both the father and the son's blades sank into the warg at the same time. Just after the warg landed on the boy, going straight for the throat.

Glorfindel thought he had never felt such a terrible pang of fear and horror as when he saw his child thrown back upon the ground and the warg's fangs sink into soft white flesh.

"Aryo!"

Heart pounding violently, Glorfindel lifted and pushed aside the warg's foul, dying corpse. "Atto. . ." whispered Aryo, his huge grey eyes dazed with shock and pain as he lay with his golden hair spread around him, spattered with both the warg's blood and his own. Glorfindel felt fangs savaging his own heart as saw the bloody mess where neck met shoulder, but thanked Eru fervently that the artery had been missed. Arman fell to the ground by his twin, weeping. Glorfindel laid gentle hands on his older son's deep-gold head and white light shone over the three as the elflord began to sing healing.

Both parents were seasoned warriors and had seen wounds far, far worse, but they were both pale as they sat by the bedside of their mauled child. The wound had been cleansed and treated and dressed, and Aryo now lay sleeping, his eyes shut because of the sleeping draughts. Maeglin tucked the blanket around him, then leaned over and stroked his golden head. Glorfindel sat in a chair next to her, holding Arman in his arms. Elladan, Elrohir, Erestor and Lindir quietly left the room, and shut the door behind them.

Glorfindel replayed the scene in his mind. He should have killed off the wargs faster, instead of taking his time. He thought of that moment the warg had leapt at Aryo's neck, cursing himself for not being faster. Just one second faster. Maeglin leaned over to kiss him, reading his mind, then left the room to prepare materials and ointment for the next wound dressing.

The younger twin suddenly began to shake with sobs, tears pouring from azure-blue eyes.

"Atto, it's all my fault… he came down only because I did."

Glorfindel hugged him tighter and stroked his pale-gold head. "A warrior must always obey orders. If you're told to fall back, you fall back. If to attack, you attack. And if to stay up a tree, you stay up." There was the seneschal's sternness underlying his gentle voice. "But do not blame yourself, _pityo_. Aryo is going to be fine. And he chose to come down himself. You did not force him. You were wrong to disobey me, do you hear? But this—this is not your fault."

"Aryo's the good one," Arman insisted, tears still trickling down his cheeks. "He would never have come down. Except for me." Glorfindel looked down at the pale golden head of the son so much like his own younger self. Remembered the hundreds of times he had never listened, had defied death and laughed lightly as he hurled himself into the path of danger. He could hear Ecthelion and Egalmoth and Rog sniggering at him from across the Sundering Seas.

"You can be good too, _pityo_," was all the father said. "You will be from now on. Won't you?"

The chastened child nodded, and buried his face in his father's neck.

* * *

><p>Five cycles of the sun later, Glorfindel walked out of the main doors of the house and gave the long, low lilting whistle that was his call to his sons.<p>

Elladan and Elrohir had just left that morning for Gondor, for Arwen was expecting another daughter. Her fifth. For all that Glorfindel had supposedly remained in Ennor to serve Elrond's twins, it had never seemed as though any such services were required—unless companionship and friendship counted as service. The members of the household each had their own sphere of duties but required little supervision or administration. When Elrond's sons were away, the elves in residence found themselves with even more leisure to do as they wished.

At his father's whistle, Arman came jumping down from a tree and raced to Glorfindel with a wide grin.

"A fine day, today. Want to go for a ride?"

"Oh yes, Atto!"

"Where is your brother?"

"Oh, he's in the _edain_ village visiting his _melda_."

"His _what?"_

* * *

><p>"Good day, Mistress Marlow. Is Faylinn at home?"<p>

The farmer's wife smiled as the elfchild appeared at the gate of the vegetable patch, his grey eyes glittering and his golden hair gleaming bright even on this overcast day. Over the past five years Faylinn's little friend had become a familiar sight on their farm and in their cottage.

"You just missed her, young master. She has gone to fetch water."

With a radiant smile of thanks, the elfling raced lightly down the path towards the Bruinen, golden tresses flying.

His face darkened when he saw who was with Faylinn on the riverbank, trying to carry her pail of water for her. Guy was sixteen that year, tall and burly with light-brown curls. He and the twins had been playmates when younger, but Aryo's cordial feelings toward him had quite faded earlier this year when he noted Guy's new interest in Faylinn. For Guy had not failed to notice Faylinn's blossoming bosom and how pretty her figure was beneath the stiff, plain dresses she always wore. Besides, now Aryo barely reached up to his ribs, Guy spoke down to him in all senses, and annoyed the elfling by mussing his beautiful golden hair with a large, careless hand.

Aryo watched in disbelief as Guy now laughingly put his arm around Faylinn's waist and pulled her to him clumsily while she protested with half a laugh and pulled away.

The next thing Guy knew, he was lying on his back on the riverbank, staring into blazing blue eyes, and an enraged elfling was sitting on his chest.

"Hands to yourself, you lumpish boar-faced lout!" snarled the elfchild.

"And who are you to say so, you meddlesome elf-pup?" growled the strapping lad, seizing hold of the child. The two rolled in the dust trading blows and insults while Faylinn shouted above the commotion.

"Stop it, Guy! Stop! He's just a little boy! You'll kill him!" Then she fell silent with her mouth open as a tall beautiful elf with flowing golden hair swiftly separated the two combatants, pulled them to their feet, and held them apart.

_"Aryo! Ásë nuhta!"_ said the tall, shining elf sharply, and Aryo, who had still been trying to lunge at his adversary, obeyed and stood still.

A moment later, Arman ran up and threw his arms around his still angry twin.

Glorfindel checked the swollen cheek and bloody nose of the young _adan_. "I apologise for my son's behaviour," he said in Westron. "If you will allow me. . ."

Overawed by the shining elflord whose blue eyes fixed on him so calmly and so penetratingly, and who towered over him by more than a head, the young mortal stood still while Glorfindel placed a hand lightly on his face. The lad felt a coolness and a tingling sensation, and a cessation of pain.

"How do you feel?" asked Glorfindel.

"Well, sir. Thank you," Guy mumbled, feeling abashed.

"Aryo," said Glorfindel quietly in Quenya. "Apologize to Guy."

"But he—"

"No 'buts'! Apologize!"

"_Atar_—"

"_Arinnáro Laurëfindelion!_ Say you are sorry!"

"I'm sorry, Guy," said Aryo in a stifled voice.

Guy nodded his head in acknowledgement, but did not meet the eyes of the elfchild half his size.

"Be off, now," said Glorfindel to Guy. "And tell your father we at the House thank him for the beets and potatoes he sent this morning."

With an awkward bow, Guy walked away with as much pride as he could muster.

Glorfindel turned back to his lovelorn son, who had his twin standing on one side of him and the maiden with brown curls bending over him on the other. Aryo had a blackened eye and a split lip which Faylinn was dabbing with a corner of her apron. The boy's eyes were still glinting with sparks of anger and injustice.

"How could you just let him go, _Atar_?" he demanded of his father. "He behaved abominably! He insulted and took advantage of Faylinn!"

"I saw you attack him, Aryo!"

"I was protecting Faylinn!" cried out Aryo. "Would you not protect Emmë if anyone sought to insult her?"

"Your Emmë is more than capable of protecting herself against anyone who attempts to insult her," said Glorfindel with a smile. Maeglin would likely castrate them. "But yes. Of course I would give my life to protect your Emmë from any harm."

The father reached down to touch his son's face with a healing hand. As he did so, he said gently, "But the young man and young maid did not look as though they were in conflict with each other, Aryo. It looked quite amicable to me."

Glorfindel turned to the maiden who was listening with fascination to the exchange in Quenya, catching only her own and Aryo's name. Switching to Westron, the elflord said, "Young maid, was any insult or injury done to you by young Guy, son of Gisburn?"

"Guy was acting silly, sir," said Faylinn. "But it was harmless. He was just fooling around. We've known each other since young. It was nothing." She looked at Aryo with a smile. "But I think my little friend very gallant for defending my honour."

Aryo flushed. Glorfindel picked up the bucket of water, and as they walked back up the path, he spoke to the lass about her parents, their farm, her brothers and sisters, and where they were from before they came to the valley. Faylinn was holding Aryo's hand as she might a small brother, and Arman was making faces as he skipped along behind.

Back at the great house, Glorfindel told Maeglin about their son's romance. "And I thought we would not have to worry about this for another thirty years at least," he said, smiling wryly and shaking his head. "A passing infatuation, I should think."

Maeglin sighed. "I hope so. But that child feels things too intensely."

"Just like one of his parents," he said, pulling her onto his lap.

"The life expectancy of the average _adan_ is sixty-five. He would watch her grow old and die soon after he comes of age."

The parents sat in silence just thinking of it.

"Let us go visit Legolas in Ithilien," Glorfindel said.

"I shall send Legolas a message right away," Maeglin said, getting off his lap.

* * *

><p>In the end, the Imladhrim shut up the great house, and the entire household decided to travel with Glorfindel and Maeglin's family. They would go first to Minas Tirith to celebrate Yule with King Elessar and Queen Arwen, after which Glorfindel's family would proceed to Ithilien.<p>

Aryo and Arman stood looking down from the walls of the Citadel at the city spread below them, their eyes glittering with excitement as they heard the myriad sounds of the bustling and prosperous heart of the Reunited Kingdoms. They could feel its life and energy calling to them from the lower circles of the city.

They looked impatiently at Glorfindel, Elladan and Elrohir, who were still sitting in the shade of the White Tree and talking with the King. Sitting with them was Celeborn, who had come from Lothlórien to visit his descendants. The men would probably talk and talk till lunchtime. Erestor, Lindir and most of the other Imladhrim were somewhere in the King's House with Queen Arwen. Their mother Maeglin was below with Gimli at the Great Gates, for the magnificent work by the dwarves of the Glittering Caves was almost complete. And therein they saw their excuse.

They ran to their father, bowing to the King politely before they turned to address Glorfindel.

"_Atar_, may we go to the Great Gates to be with _Amil_?"

Since they had been to the city before and were familiar with it, Glorfindel replied, "All right. But be sure to head straight there, and not dally along the way sampling snacks and getting into mischief."

Their grins lit up the shade under the tree. "We will!" And they ran off swiftly together.

The twins had not been to Minas Tirith for seven years, and already it was different—noisier, more crowded, the stalls more crowded with goods. As they wandered past the tall city walls and the old buildings on either side of the cobbled streets, their glittering eyes took in the _edain_ of many cultures, all shapes and ages and sizes. They listened to voices of many accents. They received a number of curious stares, but they were used to those, having received them all their lives since they were tiny babies visiting Dale and Erebor. Some mussed their bright hair and pinched their cheeks, which annoyed their dignity as they grew older, but much of it was good-natured and the boys did not mind.

Along the way, they stopped to watch a puppet show, and a parrot doing card tricks, and a man juggling knives ("He's not that good, Atto can do better," whispered Arman to his brother), and stared wistfully at some candied fruit, regretting they had not asked their father for some of the small silver coins called _Tharni_ that they saw exchanging hands.

As they passed through the Second Gate, however, they attracted some attention that was more unwelcome. Three boys, ranging in age from twelve to fifteen, lounged by the wall. Though younger than the elven twins, the mortal boys were of course far larger in size. Aryo and Arman soon became aware that their gender was the subject of speculation.

"Nay!" scoffed one. "_Boys_ those cannot be!"

"They are! Elf lads. Mark the pointy little ears!""

A low whistle. "Those are lads prettier than any lass I've ever seen."

"Look at that hair—did you ever see any gold so bright?"

"Ooo, such sweet, pretty little things they are. Think you we can pet them?"

The voices were right behind them. They were being followed.

"Could try keeping them as pets, we could. I wonder—are they hard to feed?"

"I'll have me the one on the left."

The twins' backs stiffened with injured pride as they pushed through the crowd, feeling their honour besmirched in a way they had never felt before. But their father had warned them strictly never to start a fight or a quarrel. They struggled to suppress the urge to confront their mockers. Aryo's hands clenched into fists.

"Just ignore them, Aryo. Come, let's hurry on," said Arman in Quenya.

"Did you hear that? Such a sweet little voice to match the face."

"What's got your tongue, goldilocks? Can you speak as well?"

"Come now, pretty, pretty girls! Let's be friends!"

"We just want to play, little girls!"

"Aryo, ignore them. They're just being stupid." Arman pulled on his twin's arm, seeing a look in Aryo's eyes that spelled trouble.

At that moment, one of the boys behind reached out a hand to give Arman's silky pale gold hair a hard yank, and the younger twin cried out in shock more than pain.

The mortals were not prepared for the small fury that flew at them with fiery grey eyes and golden hair flying, for the astonishing strength and speed of those small fists and knees and feet. Before they knew what hit them, one was on his knees, bent double and retching from hard punches to the stomach, another was rolling on the ground grabbing his crotch, and another was being choked by the elfling hanging onto his back, arms tightening around his neck like a vice.

"Aryo, let him go! Stop it, Aryo! You're hurting him!" cried Arman as he tried to pull his brother off the boy's back.

"That's enough!" said a stern voice, and a tall bearded lord with dark hair walked up and lifted Aryo off his victim. The fifteen-year old boy gasped and wheezed and clutched at his throat.

The tall lord set the elfling back on his feet and looked in wonder at the flaming eyes and battle fury in the face of a child so small. He held on to the child who still struggled to get at his prey.

Just then, a well-known and well-loved voice spoke nearby: "Aryo, Arman? _Man agoreg? Prestad?"_

"Legolas!" cried Arman, and threw his arms around the prince's legs. At the sound of the elvenprince's voice, Aryo's eyes cleared, and he calmed and grew still.

"Legolas, are they your kin?" asked the _adan_ lord wonderingly, as he carefully released his hold on Aryo.

"No, Faramir! These are the sons of Lord Glorfindel, from Rivendell," said Legolas as he crouched down to hug both twins.

As he had grown older, Arman's features had blended the beauty of both Finrod and Rîlel, but he still looked so much like the Lord of the Ithilien Elves that the two could be easily thought to be father and son, or brothers. The younger twin looked far more like Legolas than he looked like Aryo.

Quickly, as they were causing a major congestion in the middle of the busy throughway, Faramir herded everyone to the Old Guesthouse across from the Second Gate. One of the elves accompanying Legolas who was a healer tended to the hurts of the mortal lads. Legolas went himself to find Maeglin, while one of Faramir's men was sent to the Citadel to inform the King that Faramir and Legolas would be late for their meeting.

"Will they be all right?" asked Aryo remorsefully, watching the mortal boys being tended.

"They will be, but it will hurt for a while," said Faramir. "That is quite a temper you have there, young elf."

"Oh, Aryo very seldom gets angry, Prince Faramir. But when he does, it is frightening," said Arman.

Aryo slid down from the chair Faramir had sat him on. He gave a big swallow, and went over to the boys.

"I am Arinnáro of Rivendell," he said in clear, precise Westron. "I beg your forgiveness for my loutish behaviour. And for any injury I have caused, I am deeply sorry."

The three boys looked at the smaller child, the size of an eight-year-old, and were as abashed as Guy had been, if not more. There was respect in the eyes of the oldest boy, the youngest looked sheepish, and the one who had been kicked in the nuts still glowered morosely.

"And we ask pardon for our foolish words," said the oldest boy at last. "And for any insult given." The youngest gave an unintelligible mumble that seemed to grudgingly assent with his leader.

Looking at the one he had kicked in the groin, Aryo felt so shamefaced and sorry that without thinking he went forward and laid hands—not, of course, on the wounded region—on the chest of the boy as he lay on the pallet. So swiftly that no one had any time to react. After flinching back initially with trepidation, the mortal boy's eyes widened, his body relaxed, and his face grew calm. The Silvan healer from Ithilien smiled at Aryo.

"You have hands that heal," the healer said.

But far more easily, hands that hurt, thought Aryo, thinking of how he would face his parents.

* * *

><p>Sitting on the walls of the Citadel later that day, Maeglin and Glorfindel discussed their firstborn, who had been sent to his room for the rest of the day.<p>

"We need to teach him to recognize the signs early, so he does not fly into such a berserker rage in future."

"If controlled, it could be a great asset for a warrior," said Glorfindel.

"Uncontrolled, it could lead him to kill somebody, one day."

"I will train him. Both to control it, and to use it in battle."

"_Vennoya_, what battles are there left to fight?"

Glorfindel was silent for a while. "_Meldanya_—_vesseya_—there is something I need to tell you. News has just been brought that the last of the forces of Sauron are hiding at the Sea of Rhûn. Estel goes forth with Éomer to strike at them. Legolas shall ride with him as well, so he will not be at Ithilien. Elladan and Elrohir go too."

Maeglin had heard of King Elessar's campaigns. Gondor and Rohan had been hunting down these last remnants of the dark lord's armies over the last two decades. The twins then had been too young, and Glorfindel had not thought of going. She had thought the wars were over.

"So. You take up your sword again."

"Only with your consent, _melda_. It will be a long campaign. This will hopefully be the final, decisive strike to flush out the enemy and finish them off once and for all."

"How long?"

"It could be a year. Two years."

"How far?"

"A thousand miles east."

The thought of so long a separation over such a great distance took the breath from her. She stood up and began to pace about, a tight knot forming in the pit of her stomach. He looked so beautiful as he rose to his feet, his bright hair lifted by the evening breeze and his blue eyes glittering with anxious concern as they rested on her, that it made her heart ache to think of the miles that already seemed to yawn between them.

"And once more I am to remain home like the good _vessë_, the docile _nís,_ while you ride out to battle." Her voice was tight with anger and fear, but she kept it level.

"I will not do this without your blessing. I have not yet replied to Estel whether I will go. If I do, Legolas says that you and the boys are most welcome to stay in Ithilien with his people. Estel would delight to have you here with Arwen, and he would provide the boys with the best tutors in Gondor. Even Gimli, who has decided not to go, would be pleased to have you at the Glittering Caves."

She wanted to beg him to stay, but instead swung upon him angrily. "So, all this is discussed by _you men,_ while I was cloistered with the Queen's ladies in the palace!"

He caught her by the arms and pulled her to him. "But there is one more option, _meldanya_. Come with me. Our boys are in their twentieth year." It was traditionally the age at which care for children was no longer deemed to be so all-consuming. "Fight at my side once again." He saw the light in her black eyes begin to shimmer softly at his words. "Celeborn has offered to be their guardian if we go away." Which had not reassured Glorfindel greatly, remembering what his mother, Celeborn's last ward, had managed to get up to under his care. But of course he had not said that to his great-uncle. "Faramir acts as regent while Estel is away. He has said he would look after our boys too."

In their _fëar_, Maeglin and Glorfindel shared emotions and thoughts without words. Aryo's rages that needed governing and guidance. Arman's daredevil stunts and terrifying fearlessness of danger. Aryo's precocious fancies for the opposite sex. Celeborn and Faramir had no idea what they would have to deal with. And in one moment, the parents knew that they could not both go. She broke away from his hold and turned away.

"Estel should have the great warrior and seneschal of Imladris with him," she said. "Go. You were born for war. You will always need new battles to fight. New foes to contend with." The words sounded bitterer than she had thought they would.

"I cannot go when you say it like that," he said quietly to her back.

She turned and looked into his eyes and somehow managed a smile. "Go with my blessing. They shall wipe out the enemy faster with you there. Many families will rejoice to receive their men back sooner because you go."

They kissed.

She could not resist adding, when he finally pulled away. "It makes one wonder how you would ever survive in Aman."

"What?" he said, startled by the unexpected turn in the conversation.

"There will be no wars there. No challenges. Nothing but endless peace and boredom. How could the mighty warrior endure life in Aman?"

"There will be no wars, but every place will have its own challenges. Endless peace need not be boring. There is so much beauty and variety in Aman that you cannot imagine it, and there will be many things with which we can occupy ourselves. You could be apprenticed to Mahtan himself, for one."

That was a powerful lure. "But you," she pursued relentlessly. "You told me you grew bored there during your time with Oromë."

"That was different! I was bound to him and the Valar then, and had no freedom to do whatever I wished. Just a schedule of training every day. There are many other things to do in those realms, and life there is ever-changing and evolving. One always finds purpose and fulfilment if one seeks it."

She eyed him sceptically, then pulled him to her. Wanting to imprint the memory of his body against her own yet again.

* * *

><p>Three and a half cycles of the sun later, Elladan and Elrohir's household rode back into Imladris. With them was Celeborn and a handful of the Lothlórien elves, for the grave silver-haired elflord had decided to reside with his grandsons. The golden woods lay empty now, for the rest of the Galadhrim had either gone south to reside with Legolas, gone east to be with Thranduil, or gone west to sail.<p>

As expected, the Imladhrim found that the house needed cleaning and some repair after their absence, though the Sindar and Avarin remnant in the valley had done some work to maintain it. Those too were fewer in number, they realized. More of the Avari had also gone to the Greenwood. Some were vanishing into the hills and forests around the valley.

Aryo and Arman were detailed to clean bedrooms and make beds, and it was mid-afternoon before Aryo was freed to run down to the _edain_ settlement, which seemed to have tripled in size in their absence.

At the door of Faylinn's cottage, he saw her mother.

"Why Master Aryo! Welcome back! You have grown some I see," said the farmer's wife with a warm smile. Indeed, Aryo now reached up to the petite woman's shoulder, having grown three inches. "You would be looking for Faylinn, of course."

"Is she home, Mistress Marlow?"

"Well, I have to tell you. . . Faylinn has gone north. To Annúminas, the big city."

Aryo's world spun. "Gone?" he breathed, unbelieving.

"Aye, two springs ago. She wed a young soldier passing through from Gondor to Arnor. A fine young fellow, tall and gentle-spoken."

"_Wed?_ But she. . . she is _so young!"_

"Oh, Master Aryo, she was almost sixteen and that's a ripe age! I myself wed at fourteen. We have just had word she's been brought to bed of a fine, strong boy. Her second babe. She had a bonny lass last spring." The goodwife beamed proudly.

* * *

><p>Maeglin sat in the workroom of the smithy holding her firstborn on her lap as he wept bitter, heartbroken tears. As he slowly choked out the whole story of his loss, glad as she was that the girl had gone where her son would not have to watch her grow grey and bent with age and care, the mother felt her heart break as well.<p>

When the child's sobs finally subsided, Maeglin wiped the tears from his face with the skirt of her heavy smith's apron.

"I too loved someone," she said. "Before your father and I came together."

"You did?" said the child in great wonder. "But you didn't love him like you love _Atar_, did you?"

"I loved he—_him_ very much. But you are right, not as I love your _Atar_." She laid her cheek against her son's deep golden head. "I was not loved in return. And it hurt. A lot."

"I will never see her again. . . Why did she have to leave? If she could just be here, and I could see her now and again—"

"No. Take it from me. It is worse to see her daily. Much worse. And to know that you cannot have her. Ever. And worst of all to see her marry someone else, and behold them together every day. Little in the world hurts more, believe me, and I am glad that you are spared that. It is better your Faylinn has left. And you can have memory of those few fragile moments when you could imagine you had her to yourself."

Aryo heard the pain in his mother's voice. "But _Ammë_—you love _Atar_?"

Maeglin smiled. "I love your _Atar_ so much, there are no words for it. My first, sad love is a pale, weak shadow compared to what your _Atar_ and I have. That does not mean it did not hurt. And so it will be for you. There is One that waits for you, out there. Who will be yours alone. And one day you will find her, as your _Atar_ and I found each other."

Aryo gave his mother a wan, teary smile.

"Give your _Amil_ a kiss."

He kissed her cheek and hugged her tightly.

"Now. Help me to fire up the furnace. We have a lot of repairs to do."

As he helped her throw firewood into the furnace and tend the bellows, Aryo said suddenly, "_Emmë_?"

"Yes, _yonyo_?"

"Does _Atar_ know you loved Camaen?"

Maeglin looked at her son, stunned. "What makes you think it was Camaen?"

"Your first love married, right? Camaen and Lindawen are the only ones who married since you came to Imladris, before you and _Atar_ were married. That's what Lindir said."

Maeglin said carefully, "Now, Camaen has no idea of any of this. So please never, ever say anything to him about this, and let this be our secret. All right, _yonyo_?"

"All right, _Emmë_. I love you."

"I love you too."

* * *

><p>Elvish is my weak spot, but I try my best… My <span>intended meaning<span> is as follows, and any corrections by those who know better is always appreciated!

_Vennoya [Q] -_ dear husband

_Vesseya [Q] – _dear wife

_Ásë nuhta [Q] – _stop that

_Atto, Emmë [Q] – _Daddy, Mummy

_Atar, Amil [Q] – _Father, Mother

_Man agoreg? Prestad? [S] – _What did you do? Trouble? ("What happened? Are you in trouble?")

_Pityo [Q] – _little one

_Yonyo [Q] – _big boy


	30. Chapter 30: Winds of Change

Maeglin woke with a start in the darkness, her breath fast and ragged. In an instant, Glorfindel was awake as well.

"Bad dreams again?" he said into her ear as he slid his arm around her.

"Go back to sleep, _vennoya_," she said shortly, though she pulled herself away from his embrace gently enough. She got out of bed, not looking at him, not wanting to see his blue eyes darken with hurt. She pulled on a tunic and leggings.

"Where are you going? It is three in the morning."

"I need an early start at the smithy," she said as she pulled on her boots. "There's some work to finish before we leave." They were leaving that day for Gondor.

"I'll come with you," he said immediately.

"No! Sleep. I won't be able to concentrate with you there." She gave him a quick kiss on the mouth. "See you at breakfast." And she closed the bedchamber door firmly behind her.

As she made her way through starlight and cold, crisp autumn air to the smithy, she looked out over the valley. Even with the power of Vilya gone, millennia of habitation by the elvenfolk left its mark on Rivendell valley. The harvests here were more plentiful, the sun, moon and stars shone a little brighter, the flowers bloomed more abundantly, the foliage of the trees was greener and more luxuriant. The enchanted winters of old, which blanketed the valley gently with soft, white snow, were gone. Harsher winds blew, and lashing icy rains fell, but winters were still milder here than in the lands surrounding the valley.

Over the last hundred years, the _edain_ village in Rivendell had grown further. Its population was kept in check by periodic waves of sickness and pestilence, by migration out to the burgeoning cities of Arnor in the north, and by the usual mortal afflictions of age and childbirth mortality. But there was no doubt that the valley was now theirs, a hundred and twenty years into the Age of Men.

In her _fëa_, for the past year, Maeglin had felt an increasing disquiet and restlessness. This was no longer home. She knew it would soon be time to leave.

But the question that haunted her was—leave for where?

She settled at her workbench in the smithy, and focused her attention on a lamp she was finishing.

It had baffled the elves of the valley, who had lived thousands of years in harmony with this land, how many trees in the valley two hundred mortals could destroy in just one cycle of the sun, let alone a century. Elladan and Elrohir had spoken to the mortals gravely regarding this, and many saplings had been planted. For her part, Maeglin channelled her energy and skills into creations to replace fuel and firewood in their household. Beginning with the ancient elven craft of capturing light, she developed lamps that illuminated the night, warmed in winter, cooled in summer. The shared living spaces still in use in the great house now had two of these. Perfecting the lamp had taken years.

Her apprentices had proven able. Arman was incredibly skilled with his hands, and sometimes, watching him breathe life into the gemstones he crafted, she thought that he might surpass Enerdhil some day, given how young he still was. Aryo was also a talented craftsman, his mind fertile with ideas, some crazy, some brilliant. His recent obsession was re-creating the seeing stones of Fëanor. And, as they prepared for their journey to Gondor, he had begun to muse aloud about creating portals through which vast distances could be crossed. At times like this, he worried his parents.

Her skilled hands made the final touches on a lamp for the King and Queen of the Reunited Kingdoms. This one glowed bright and golden with the morning light of Arien, shaped like a fruit of Laurelin, and its companion lamp, already completed, was cool and white with the light of Tilion, and shaped like a flower of Telperion.

The work could easily have been completed after dawn. It was the dream that had driven her here this night. For, after a century and a half of peaceful nights, her nightmares had returned.

Tonight she had been haunted by the deaths of the Lords of Gondolin.

Penlod slowly sliding down a wall pierced with orcish spears, the light fading from his silver-green eyes.

Swift Duilin, his last arrow spent, gasping as he was struck through in turn with a fiery bolt shot by a balrog, then falling in flames from the high battlements over the great Gate.

Rog swinging his mighty mace with a roar of defiance, ringed round with orcs and balrogs, mowing down orcs with each stroke till a ferocious blast of flame from a fire drake burned him and the last of the warriors of the Hammer to ashes.

Ecthelion falling into his fountain, his silver eyes steely and grim as he pulled down the balrog Gothmog with him. . . the waters flowing dark red.

As the ship pulls into the harbour at Aman, they wait on the landing. Tall. Silent. Battle-battered armour darkened with blood. Bleeding still from their many wounds or still smouldering from the flames. The acrid, sickening smell of burning flesh and hair. The cold, condemning light of their dead eyes.

Just a dream, she had told herself after she awoke, shaking and in a cold sweat. She had not seen any of them die in life. It was just a stupid dream. . .

Maeglin clenched her hands to steady them before she could resume her work. She could not believe how much this was affecting her.

The ship. Yes, it would soon be time to leave.

The lamp she was completing would all too soon be passed on to Estel and Arwen's son Eldarion, and later to Eldarion's descendants. King Elessar was of a venerable age now. The Imladhrim remnant knew, with elven foresight, that this would be their last visit to Gondor, that soon, like the generations of the line of Elros before him, Estel would pass beyond the circles of Arda. And with the death of Estel-Elessar, it would be time for the Imladhrim to sail west. They spoke about it around the table as they dined. What were their plans? Where might they stay? Who would they be reunited with? Plans were already being made to keep in touch and meet for certain festivals. Two at the table were silent through all the discussions. Celeborn, serenely drinking more than he ate, scarcely seemed to pay heed to the others. Maeglin naturally had nothing to say. Glorfindel loyally tried to share his love's silence, but was often pulled into the conversation as he alone in the company had been to Valinor. Arman and Aryo were both excited and enthusiastic, asking their father endless questions about the Undying Lands that lay beyond the bent world.

Maeglin was angered and frustrated by the helplessness she felt, as all she had known in this lifetime seemed to be slipping away.

Her work done, she packed the lamps carefully away in bags. It was half-past four in the morning, and the sky outside was still dark. Glorfindel appeared at the window, his glittering eyes soft with concern. She knew him so well that she knew that after she had left their bedchamber, he would not have slept. He would have gone outdoors to prowl restlessly, or gone to the training room to bludgeon the sword-training dummy, or done both. Finally, after letting enough time lapse so as not to incur her wrath and be chased away, he would have allowed himself to do what he longed – come to see her at the smithy.

"_Melda_," he said gently, coaxingly, as he leaned against the window sill. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing is wrong," she growled irritably, as she packed away her tools.

And with that, the door to her heart and mind shut in his face. She saw him hold back further words. He straightened, looked away, and waited for her to lock up the smithy. They walked back to the house side by side in silence. The distance between them felt as wide as the Sundering Sea.

* * *

><p>Winter had arrived, and the waters of the Anduin were dark and choppy as the ferry crossed. The strong wind drove white clouds in the sky before it, and the sea-gulls threw themselves with wild cries against it. The sky remained a tender blue. The sun shone warm still, and bathed the fair, wooded slopes of the farther shore in its clear, luminous light.<p>

Just four days in the elven settlement of Ithilien, then they would return to Minas Tirith, where Elladan, Elrohir and the rest of the Imladhrim still resided. The travellers stood on the deck of the ferry ship, watching as the eastern bank drew near. Glorfindel was talking to Aryo and Arman. Maeglin stood alone with her thoughts, and her eyes rested on Celeborn, standing alone and silent to her left. He had decided to accompany them and visit his kinsman Legolas.

The tall, silver-haired Sindarin lord was an enigma to her. His calm countenance never showed emotion. Did he not miss his lady? Did he feel pain at this long separation, and would he ever sail to rejoin her in Aman? For he had as yet spoken nothing of his plans.

Maeglin glanced at Glorfindel, remembering how painful their separation for two years had been, when he fought at the Sea of Rhûn. She had now known Glorfindel for three hundred years, and loved him for almost two hundred. Perhaps, in six millennia, their love would cool to a deep regard and affection such as Galadriel and Celeborn's. That bond between the two who once ruled Lothlórien seemed to be one that no longer burned with hunger or need, one that could sustain an indefinite separation. . .

Glorfindel turned his golden head, and his eyes rested on her, their expression wounded. Resentfully she looked away and shielded her thoughts from him. A part of her felt a twinge of guilt.

They landed on the east bank of the Anduin. Legolas and his people had transformed this land of rolling hills and streams wondrously. The travellers walked through groves of trees with silver-green leaves, though tall stands of cypress, and came to the heart of the settlement where seventeen tall mellyrn grew. Celeborn had given Legolas the saplings when he first travelled south to establish his colony, and they had flourished amazingly in the warm climate of Gondor. In a hundred and twenty years, they had grown tall and their boles had an impressive girth. They were not, of course, the size of the ancient trees in Lothlórien, but already for many years the elves of Ithilien had been able to live on _talans_ built on them, much as they had in Lothlórien.

At the centre of the mallorn grove was a large pavilion with a high roof. There they found Legolas seated at a table, poring over plans for a ship of Gondor with several elves, among them Haldir, who had been his second-in-command since the Galadhrim had come to join the Greenwood elves in Ithilien.

With bright smiles and cheerful greetings, Legolas and the others came forward to welcome them. Almost the first thing that Glorfindel did was pass the Lord of the Ithilien elven colony a long scroll he had carried from Imladris.

Haldir's brothers Rúmil and Orophin hugged Aryo and Arman warmly, and disappeared with them up one of the mallorn trees, talking animatedly.

Lord Celeborn seated himself gracefully on a bench beneath a mallorn tree and serenely contemplated the scene around him, immediately looking right at home.

Maeglin went wandering off through the woods alone, her long, black hair blowing in the wind.

Glorfindel gazed after her with a pang of helplessness, then turned his attention to Legolas, who was unrolling the scroll the golden elflord had brought from Círdan the Shipwright. There were several large sheets of parchment within it, and he and Haldir smoothed them out on the table. The plans for an elven ship.

Glorfindel looked at the plans for the ship of Gondor, and made a face. "That looks rather heavy and clumsy."

"We thought so as well, which is why we requested the plans from Círdan," Legolas said as he pored over the diagrams. "Yes. This looks more like it. We have built smaller ships and sailed them along the coastline, but to build for the deep seas we needed more guidance."

"Legolas. . . since when did your father ever visit Ithilien?" asked Glorfindel in shock, seeing a familiar figure approach Celeborn in the distance.

"Since yesterday," said Legolas wryly. "Since I wrote him three weeks back that I am building a ship."

"How upset is he?"

Legolas rolled his blue eyes skywards in despair and said nothing. Glorfindel clapped his shoulder sympathetically and was likewise silent.

"I would stay clear of him if I were you," the prince said to the balrog slayer. "Foul is a poor word to describe his mood. Especially when I told him I was taking Gimli with me."

"Well, none of us are feeling exactly joyous at this time," said Glorfindel.

"Aragorn looks still hale," said Legolas quietly. "But you have seen the signs as well as I have. It will soon be time to sail."

Glorfindel was silent.

"You _will_ be sailing, will you not?" asked Legolas. "I was looking forward to your showing me all the places you have described to me."

King Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen, sweeping into the pavilion in his long grey and maroon robes, overheard his son's words. Glorfindel saw the king's blue eyes go as cold as the Helcaraxë.

Glorfindel bowed to his half-brother.

"Adar, Glorfindel has told me of the woods of Lord Araw Tauron in the Blessed Lands," said Legolas blithely. "How much vaster they are than Eryn Lasgalen, and how much fairer. Our people could make dwellings there. It is possible that the Galadhrim are there already."

_If looks could kill_, thought Glorfindel, willing Legolas to shut up.

"The woods are not Glorfindel's to offer, but Araw Tauron's," said Thranduil icily. "Unless the elflord is actually presuming to speak and act on behalf of the Valar."

"Not at all," says Glorfindel. "Only that with the many who have already sailed west to the Blessed Realms, I should not be surprised if the northern forests have been opened to the Sindar and the Avari. I doubt that the Valar would make them stay in the cities when their _fae_ long for the freedom of the wild woods. Not all would wish to join with the Teleri, and Tol Eressëa might be getting a little crowded by now."

"So. All pure speculation," said the Elvenking.

"Yes, I admit it," said Glorfindel. "A reasonable enough guess, but I have been away for six millennia."

Thranduil eyed the blueprints of the elven ship. "And where did these come from?" he asked.

"Glorfindel just brought them, Adar," said Legolas quietly. "They are from Círdan the Shipwright himself. It will be a seaworthy and splendid ship."

Thranduil glared at the balrog slayer with cold blue eyes. Grimly, he murdered the golden elflord in his thoughts, dismembering him piece by piece.

* * *

><p>The restless wind whipped through the trees at night. Ragged drifts of dark cloud were chased across the face of the moon. When Glorfindel returned to their <em>talan<em>, Maeglin was standing at the opening in the screens of the flet, looking out into the darkness, shimmering silver in the moonlight, the wind blowing her black hair and the white shift she wore. Glorfindel slipped his arms around her from behind and buried his face in her hair.

"What have you been doing all day?" he asked. After dinner, he had stayed up drinking with Legolas and some of the others, and she had declined to join them. He had thought she would be asleep when he returned, and was delighted to find her still up.

"Walking. Thinking," she said.

"Any thoughts to share?" he asked, cautiously. He had tried to talk to her several times about the future, about sailing, and been rebuffed sharply each time.

"Nothing important."

"Nothing about you is unimportant to me. You can tell me."

"No, really, there's nothing."

As his hands began to wander, she sighed and said, "Not tonight." Pulling away from his embrace, she kissed him lightly on the lips and moved away to the bed.

Glorfindel looked after her in shock.

As she fluffed up her pillows on the bed, she saw him at the corner of her eye still standing in the moonlight, his golden hair streaming in the wind, and her heart was heavy. She lay down and turned her back to him.

* * *

><p>Aryo was disturbed in his dreams by a silken voice in his ear saying, "Arinnáro. . . Remember me?" And he opened his eyes to see Haldir's daughter in a tiny white slip, kneeling astride him on his bed.<p>

How had he been sleeping so soundly that she had managed to position herself there?

At least she was wearing something this time.

"Merileth," he groaned. "Please. You have to stop doing this. Your ada will kill me."

"Why do you always say that? Ada need never know. And ada wouldn't kill the son of the greatest warrior of the Eldar."

He sighed. "Our fathers are friends. I want them to stay that way."

"Of course they will. They are great friends. And we should be friendly too," Merileth said smoothly, kneeling on all fours over him, and slipping a knowing hand under his blanket.

With an agility and speed that impressed her, he was out of bed with his blanket wrapped around his waist. "Merileth, please, just leave." He snatched up his leggings and began to put them on under his blanket. She pounced on him and caught him off balance just as he was putting one leg into his leggings. They tumbled onto the floor with her on top.

Oh Eru. His parents were on the flet below. He hoped they had not heard that.

"Don't be shy," she breathed in his ear, as she ran her fingers through his bright golden tresses and down his back. "We could have such fun together."

With a weary sigh, he rolled her off before she could try to remove his blanket, got to his feet and quickly finished putting on his leggings before she could make her next move. Taking her by the arms as firmly yet as gently as he could, he propelled her towards the ladder of the flet.

"May I not just sleep next to you in your bed as before? It is lonely on my flet."

"Forgive me, Merileth, but I do not think that a good idea." The last time she had sworn she only wanted to cuddle had not ended well.

"At least walk me to my _talan_," she said, looking at him with her large, lovely blue-green eyes.

"Just to the foot of your tree."

They walked through shadows and moonlight across the grass. At the foot of her mallorn, she smiled at him. "I shall not give up on you, _meleth nin_," she said, and kissed him on the lips. And grabbed him somewhere else. Aryo gasped and jumped backwards. "_Elei vedui_," she breathed, her eyes shimmering. "And dream of me." And she disappeared lightly up the ladder.

As he climbed the ladder to his own flet, Aryo saw Glorfindel sitting on the steps and waiting for him.

"You heard?" said Aryo softly.

"I was awake and you were like oliphaunts. It was hard not to. It is a good thing your Amil slept through it. She'd have given Merileth a lashing with her tongue and her hand."

Aryo sat on the ladder next to his father. "Atto, please tell me I will not have to do this for the next six thousand years."

"Eru only knows," said his father with a smile. "You handled Merileth quite well."

"Was she this bad with you?"

"Honestly? Given the length of time it took you to get her out of there, either she has mellowed, or you are better at this than I was. Her tenacity is amazing."

Aryo eyed the flet above his. "You figure Arman is all right?"

"Let's have a look," said Glorfindel, and headed up the ladder.

As the father and son climbed onto the _talan_, they heard several gasps of surprise, and they saw five pairs of eyes glittering at them from Arman's bed. In the half-darkness, Glorfindel's elven eyes recognized the lasses as long-term admirers of Legolas. "Oh, _aiya_ Atto, _aiya_ Aryo," said Arman sleepily from the midst of the maidens, giving a big yawn and stretching. "Meet Nínim, Dílloth, Aníriel, and Nemirwen. Their _talan_ collapsed today. They had nowhere to spend the night." And he grinned cheerfully, his azure blue eyes all innocent boyishness.

* * *

><p>Two days later. Legolas and several of his elves were walking among the cypresses selecting the more mature trees for timber. The Elven Lord of Ithilien smiled with amusement as the twins walked slowly and stiffly up to him.<p>

"What happened to you two?"

"Our adar thrashed us both in an unarmed combat training session," groaned Arman, as he leaned himself against a tree.

Aryo slowly lowered himself on a bench. "I have discovered muscles I did not realize I possessed."

"You could have asked your adar to heal you as well," said Legolas, his eyes sparkling with laughter.

"Not in his present mood," said Arman, wincing as he gingerly rotated a shoulder joint.

"I've never seen him and Naneth like this. And I think he's taking it out on us." Aryo's grey eyes were disturbed.

Legolas looked concerned. He had noticed not all was well between Glorfindel and Maeglin. "Where is your father now?"

"He's gone to look for Naneth."

"I have known your parents a long time. They will sort things out."

The twins smiled wanly. "We came to ask if we could help, actually," said Aryo.

"Yes, with the felling of the trees."

Legolas laughed. "What? You two cripples? Be off to the bath house, and then have a good rest. You can help tomorrow when you can walk properly."

As the twins turned to leave, Legolas added, "Oh, and Arman—"

Arman turned to look at the Elven Lord of Ithilien. Legolas smiled. "Watch out in the bath house. Ambushes happen there often."

Arman smiled back and winked. He had gotten used to being mobbed by the admirers of Legolas each time he visited. He thought them quite harmless.

"Have you ever tried healing yourself?" Arman asked his brother as they walked away.

"Does not work," replied Aryo, shaking his head.

"We could heal each other," suggested his twin.

"It's worth a try. . ."

* * *

><p>The blue skies and sunshine had vanished. Grey clouds gathered like a vast army on the march in the skies, and the wind came howling and rushing against the land in big gusts.<p>

Maeglin walked through groves of ancient trees with gnarled trunks and branches, brooding.

What if she had never been rebodied in Ennor? Without her, Glorfindel would sail serenely to Aman and be joyously reunited with Idril and Ecthelion and the other Lords of Gondolin. She could see them feasting together at Turgon's as they had of old, reminiscing of fair days gone past.

With her at his side, instantly there loomed a shadow that seemed to her as long as the Anduin and as black as the depths of Moria. Shame and guilt were resurrected and reared their monstrous heads once again.

She had no doubts about Glorfindel. He would fearlessly take her by the hand and present her as his, she knew. He would stand by her side, smiling radiantly at her with pride and love, and dare them all to reject her or him.

But she faltered thinking of all the others. The heavy weight of their judgement would fall not on her alone. The brightness and glory of the hero of a hundred songs would be sullied and trampled into the filthy mire of what she had done. She could only imagine the horror and bewilderment of the Gondolindrim once they realized that the most beloved son and hero of the city had twined his life with that of the one who had brought it down.

And her two sons—beautiful, brilliant, so young, looking ahead to the future with such hope and excitement. Her shadow and shame could threaten that future too.

Itarillë. Just remembering the last time they had met. . . The struggle, first with swords and then grappling hand-to-hand as the prince tried violently to seize her. The words of anger and condemnation she had cried out at him. Maeglin felt she would rather die another death than face Itarillë again. . .

Yes. She was a coward. A coward who had betrayed her people and princess and now could not face them again.

Gusts of wind whipped her hair and the gnarled trees in the grove. She looked eastwards to where Ennor stretched away endlessly into unknown lands of infinite possibilities.

Perhaps it would be easier for all if she disappeared. . .

"The weather grows foul for a walk, my lady."

She spun round to see Thranduil behind her. He stood tall and still as the wind sent his pale gold hair streaming, and his long blue and silver robe swirling.

"I do not mind it," she said. It matched her mood.

They watched as clouds raced across the sky.

"Invigorating in a way," said the monarch of the Greenwood. His eyes suggested his mood was as dark as hers.

"I hope you find your walk refreshing, then. I bid you good day." She bowed her head to him, and turned to walk away. He walked next to her.

"I am poor company today, my lord king," she said abruptly, wondering how to be rid of him.

"You appear troubled, my lady."

"It is naught. Foresight tells us that King Elessar's reign approaches its end. He is a dear friend. Already we grieve."

"Ah. . . and then, the sons of Elrond shall sail. And you and your lord and your sons shall go with them."

"Yes. . ."

Such a lack of conviction in her voice.

"One might think you have no desire to sail with your _golodh_."

She stopped and turned her piercing black eyes on him. "You would do well to refrain from using that word in my presence," she said, icily regal. "I have far more '_golodh'_ blood than my husband. He is only one-eighth Noldorin."

"Indeed? I was led to believe that Glorfindel's parentage was unknown to any, including himself."

Maeglin cursed herself. She was not thinking straight today. "Anyone can tell, just by looking at him," she said scornfully. "There is unmistakably Vanyarin blood there, and Telerin or Sindarin. Hardly anything of the Noldor in his colouring or features." She looked at Thranduil. "He probably has more kinship to you than you would allow."

Thranduil examined her face curiously, gazing deep into her eyes. Such smouldering eyes of night. "And what of _your_ parentage? Your lovely eyes, I might guess, come of Avarin stock."

"Perhaps," she said coldly, indifferently. "I would not know. I have no memory of my parents. I wonder that my parentage should be of any interest to King Thranduil of Eryn Lasgalen."

"There is an intriguing little mystery I have wondered about since we met, and perhaps you could enlighten me now. Why it is that a young _elleth_ in her first _În_ –as you were, when we first met—should speak Sindarin with a unique accent I had not heard since the First Age. A rare and distinctive accent, identical to that of two Avarin servants of my father's household, who came to us from Nan Elmoth, after their lord was lost." He saw her eyes flicker, though her face remained stony. "You hide it well. Except when you get angry." He smiled. "And I seem to make you angry often, do I not?"

She replied as coolly as she could, "How curious. But as you have noted, I am yet young, so your observation makes no sense."

"And there it is again—in the vowel sounds! Unmistakable. How quaint." He smiled into black eyes glinting with golden fire. "A fascinating pair, you and your lord make. Both obviously of mongrel stock. Neither one able to name parentage. Obviously like draws to like."

Reminding herself that this was Legolas' beloved father and her husband's brother, she held her tongue and her Avarin accent. In her mind, she disembowelled him with a blade.

"Interesting, how you claim _golodh_ blood with such certainty—for one who knows not her parentage."

"It is in my features, I am oft told," she replied, cursing herself for yet another careless slip.

"Such pride in your _golodhrim_ ancestry—and scorn for your Avarin? Rightly so, for the Avari are of baser blood. And yet, I will grant them this: they are a hardy and loyal race; generous; free-spirited. And they have that which High-Elven blood has lost touch with. They are passionate, and deeply in touch with their passions, and they give them free play." His piercing blue eyes scrutinized hers. "Do you find shame in that nature of yours, my lady? Do you repress it?"

Maeglin's lip curled. "I do not get your meaning, my lord king. I must be less Avarin than you think."

"There is one way to find out," he said coolly. And he slid his hand behind her neck and kissed her.

Glorfindel, searching for Maeglin, turned the corner to see his beloved push Thranduil away from her violently, and swing a punch at the king which he dodged with a small smile.

The king turned his head to see Glorfindel, and his smile widened.

Just as she was about to strike again at Thranduil, Maeglin saw Glorfindel and froze. Her furious face flushed deep red. She spun on her heel, and walked swiftly away. In the opposite direction from her love.

Glorfindel's face was murderous as he approached his brother, who calmly watched the approach of the balrog slayer.

"Ah, Lord Glorfindel. Your wife and I were discussing ancestry," he said to the elflord. "We had just determined that she has Avarin blood before you arrived."

"Indeed?" said Glorfindel as he strode up, in a tone that had chilled the blood of errant or ill-disciplined warriors at Imladris for millennia.

"I envy you your good fortune," said Thranduil. "She kisses with such fire."

The King was seized by the neck of his robe, swung round, and his back slammed into the nearest tree trunk. Gazing into enraged blue eyes that sparked with white flames, Thranduil permitted his own antagonism and anger at the elflord to show naked on his countenance. He could feel the dangerous power of the elflord in the hand around his throat, the strength and violence barely being held back. The king's face showed no fear.

Glorfindel struggled for some moments for mastery over himself.

"You are fortunate indeed that I did not break your back and your neck into a dozen pieces just now," the elflord finally said, in a voice tight with smothered rage. He consciously relaxed his grip, but maintained a vice-like hold around Thranduil's neck that the King would not be able to escape.

"Not that violence would have been unexpected from a _golodh_," said the king once he caught his breath.

"Apologize. For insulting my wife."

"Ask her first, whether she was insulted or not—" He choked as Glorfindel's grip involuntarily tightened. The elflord contained his rage and quickly loosened his hold again.

"The insult could not have been clearer."

"I am glad you noticed—" Thranduil stopped again in pain as the fingers tightened, but he neither winced nor cried out. The elflord mastered himself again.

"What in all Arda did I ever do to you?" Glorfindel demanded furiously. "We were once friends."

"To my regret," said Thranduil. Blue eyes looked into blue. Glorfindel saw anger, pain, and loss in his half-brother's eyes. He released the king's throat slowly, and stepped back.

"What is my fault," Glorfindel asked angrily, "To have earned such contempt while all these years giving service to you and your realm? At least let me know. How did I ever wrong you or give offence?"

Thranduil gazed back into the eyes so like his own with fire of his own to match. "Where shall we begin? With the time you took my young son and disappeared without a word into the Withered Heath for five days and brought him home with a broken leg?"

"You know that was an honest mistake! We each thought the other had left word for you. And give me some credit—I set the leg well and partially healed it. I have apologized to you for it."

"On top of the many other times you have gotten him almost killed, captured by orcs and trolls, mauled by wargs, or eaten by spiders."

"My presence for all those instances was incidental. You know as well as I that he does all that even when I am not around."

"Explain why he is especially accident prone in your company."

"You mean the time he was swept two miles downriver?"

"And the time he had his gut sliced open. And was captured by trolls."

"That all happened in his first _În! _He was young and reckless, he wanted to prove himself. I've brought him home with nary a nick on him ever since."

"And then—there is the matter of the night you kissed Lothuial on Cerin Amroth," said Thranduil, cold fury in his voice at the memory.

Glorfindel looked at him stunned. "You saw?"

Thranduil's glare was savage.

The early years of the Third Age. A moonlit night in Lothlórien. A golden-haired lord and a silver-haired maiden pressed against the shadowed bole of a mallorn tree and shimmering in the darkness, lips locked in a deep kiss while the King of Greenwood, the guest of King Amroth, watched from a _talan_ in another tree, his face dark with rage and jealousy.

"I should have known," said Glorfindel, shaking his head. "I should have known that you saw us and never forgave me for it. But if you loved her then, you hid it well. And to set the record straight: _she_ began kissing me. She was in love with you, thought it hopeless, and drank too much that night. She was seeking comfort. That's all. How can you hold it against me? You were not betrothed then, you were not even courting. Your love was undeclared. Whereas _you_—you kissed _my wife!_ The mother of my children!"

Thranduil stared at the golden-haired elflord. "She loved me then?"

"Desperately, you fool! She was too proud a warrior to declare it, but anyone who knew her well would have seen it in her eyes. Why did you hold yourself so cold and distant if you wanted her? She thought she had not a hope in the world. All the Galadhrim maidens were throwing themselves at you at that time. Remember the baths? She saw. She was furious, got herself drunk and miserable, and came to me—"

"My Lothuial—drunk?" said the king incredulously.

Glorfindel sighed. "I do not think it ever happened except that one time. It was not like her, but it was all because of you. I do not think she ever wanted to remember that night. It is no wonder she never told you about it. When she started kissing, I had no heart to push her away." Furious at Thranduil as he still was, Glorfindel felt obliged to add grudgingly, "If it makes you feel better, she called me by your name." Glowering, the elflord added angrily, "I know you miss her. You can do whatever you want with your Sylvan lovers. But—you do _not_—_ever_—kiss _my wife._ I cannot _believe_ you did that! It goes against all the laws and customs of our kind._"_

Appeased, Thranduil looked his former friend in the eye, and said calmly, "You are right. I apologize."

"There is only one reason why you are still alive. I am not, and will never be, a kinslayer."

Thranduil's eyes hardened and glittered icily again.

"What?" said Glorfindel, his blue eyes narrowing. "There is something else, isn't there? Before Legolas was born. Before Lothuial. Something at the bottom of it all. What is it?" He stepped close to his brother, and said, "Go ahead. Name my transgression. Tell it to my face."

In a biting voice, the Woodland King said: "My father's death."

Glorfindel stared at Thranduil, dumbfounded for a while. "I tried my best to save him!"

"You would have done better not to. I saw death in my father's eyes three times in my life. The first, when he found my mother's body. The second, when he first laid eyes on you. The third, when you bore him out of the fray. Your greatest transgression?" Thranduil said bitterly. "That you were ever begotten!"

They stood eye to eye, face to face for a moment.

A look almost of relief crossed Glorfindel's face. "So. . . you know."

"And what do I know?" challenged Thranduil in a quiet, steely voice. "Tell me."

"About our mother," said Glorfindel.

Thranduil's eyes glittered dangerously. "You do not deserve to name her as such."

"She may have begat me out of wedlock, but her blood runs in my veins as much as yours."

"_Your_ veins are filthy with the _golodh_ that defiled her," snapped Thranduil contemptuously.

"You will _not_ speak thus of my noble father!" cried Glorfindel irately, fire kindling in his eyes again.

"Noble?" said Thranduil in outrage. "Noble? That piece of filth?" He seized the front of Glorfindel's tunic.

"Thranduil," said a calm, commanding voice. "Please release your brother."

The brothers turned to see Rîlel's guardian standing beneath the ancient trees of the grove.

Thranduil abruptly let go of Glorfindel and stepped away from him. The Woodland King glared coldly at Celeborn. "All these years. You knew."

"Yes," said the silver-haired lord walking towards Rîlel's two sons. He was as tall as his great-nephews, his hair flowing like moonlight down his back. His ageless face was smooth and expressionless. "It was your mother's secret I carried," he said to Thranduil. "She never wished you to know. Or your father. But it is time."

"And what of the ravisher?" said Thranduil sharply. "Did you protect and shield him? Did you let him go unpunished, for the sake of the Lady Galadriel?"

Celeborn looked at his Sindarin nephew with unruffled calm. "It was not as you think." His silver eyes then rested on Glorfindel for a moment, thinking of Finrod. "Your mother was young. She fancied herself in love."

Thranduil stood very still.

"It was but the giddy romantic dream of a young maid, and she came in time to see it as such," Celeborn continued serenely.

"And the _golodh_ took advantage of her vulnerability," said Thranduil heatedly.

Celeborn looked at Thranduil for a while, his piercing silver eyes glittering, then he said gently, "Quite the reverse, I am afraid. Perhaps we should leave it at that."

Thranduil was silent.

Celeborn added, "As her guardian, the fault was mine for not offering my ward better guidance than I did. I little understood what measures an ardent young heart desperate for love might resort to. Until it was too late. Glorfindel's father was, in all this, ignorant. Although," he added to Glorfindel, "I think it likely that the Lady Galadriel would have spoken to Finrod in Valinor, by now."

Glorfindel's heart ached for Thranduil, who was looking as though everything he had ever believed in was being shaken. The son of Finrod looked away from his brother's pain.

"Thranduil," said Celeborn kindly. "Your mother loved you dearly. And she loved your royal father. That does not change."

Thranduil hardly heard the erstwhile Lord of Lothlórien. He was thinking of only one thing at the moment.

_Finrod._

She had died with the _golodh's_ name on her lips.

* * *

><p>Maeglin sat in the long grass looking west out over the wide Anduin to the farther shore. A few sea birds were in the grey, overcast sky above, fighting the winds, their wild cries harsh in her ears. She had found refuge beneath an evergreen oak, hoping to be hidden from sight by its thick foliage.<p>

She sensed Glorfindel approach long before he arrived. He stood some distance from her, gazing out over the Anduin as she did, his arms folded across his chest. She sat with her arms wrapped around her knees. The gusty winds whipped their black and golden hair. They did not look at each other.

"You kissed him back?" His voice was quiet, but weighted with hurt and accusation.

"He was being a scumbag—"

"And for that you kiss him. I see."

"It happened so fast. I'm not clear what happened."

"Thranduil can be a scumbag but he does not lie! You kissed him back!"

"I loathe the man!"

"That is not helping! You loathed _me_ up to the moment you coupled with me!"

"He caught me unawares—"

"Oh, so now we know it was a spontaneous reaction—"

"It was one brief moment—"

"Finally. You admit it—"

"One moment! It was nothing!"

"You _kissed him back!_ There was _something."_

Maeglin struggled, powerless to express the state of mind she had been in when Thranduil found her, helpless to understand why or how everything had happened as it did.

"Fine!" she snarled, getting to her feet. "I'm a lowlife half-breed _Moriquendi_ traitor because I kissed your half-brother back for one second. Satisfied? You righteous, purebred High Elf?"

"That is not it at all!" Glorfindel said in anguish. "Not at all. It is about our marriage. What it means to you. I knew from the first day that you are my One, and that I am bound to you till the unmaking of Arda. Exclusively. Unconditionally. Until the Dagor Dagorath and the end of time. But I have never known—you have _not once said_—if our bond means to you what it means to me."

"You should know by now what it means to me."

"We speak blessings, not vows when we wed. So tell me. What do those blessings mean to you?"

"Have I ever been untrue?"

"Have you? Today?"

"It was not that way at all. It meant nothing."

"All the past two months you have kept yourself far from me." His quiet voice was broken with hurt. "You cloud your thoughts, but I sense them still. You think of leaving. Of breaking with me."

There was no use denying it. "Only _thoughts_. Not plans. Not intentions."

"How are you able to even _think_ it? To me, it is the unthinkable!"

During Maeglin's silence, Glorfindel felt his heart twist with pain.

"I cannot say I would never leave," she said slowly, not looking at him. "I am who I am. And if it were better for you, and for our sons, that I remove myself, I would."

"_Better?"_ he asked in bitter disbelief. "How could it ever be _better?_ So you believe two lives joined as one can be separated?"

"Celeborn and Galadriel are proof that they can."

He looked at her in despair, his eyes darkening to violet with pain. "They are not us."

"Listen," she said grimly. "I am not saying I would do it. But you need to think what lies ahead. Across Belegaer are all those who love you, but love me not. Think of facing Itarillë—"

"I have thought of it for the past hundred and fifty years. Itarillë loves me, and I _know_ she will love you when she sees how happy we are—"

"Ecthelion. Rog. All the other Lords—"

"I could not care less what they think—"

"Can you just see it? _'Meet my wife. Yes, we were all Lords together before.'"_

"If they do not accept you, they do not accept me!"

"So. You would give up all your friendships. Your beloved house."

"In case you have not noticed, I have done without those friendships and without all the Golden Flowers for six and a half thousand years now. I am sure all of them have been doing just fine without me too."

"And what of our sons? Do we wait for one of the Gondolindrim to walk up to them in a street in Aman, spit in their faces, and tell them their mother was Maeglin Lómion?"

"We shall tell them now. They are old enough, and wise enough."

She stepped away from him and shook her head. "No, no. . . Don't. Not yet. Not now."

"You trust so little in their love for you?"

"I am not brave enough to hurt them that way," she said curtly. "And if I do not go to Aman, they will never need to know."

After another silence, he said, "If you do not wish to go to Aman, we will stay."

"I won't let you do it. You feel the call of the sea as strongly as Legolas. And so do our sons. To stay would eat at all of you from within. One day, you and they will awaken with regret, hating me, and Círdan's last ship would have sailed."

"You cannot prevent me from staying here with you. Our sons can choose for themselves, and go to Aman with Elrond's twins and the others if they so wish. But I will stay with you. Whether we sail or do not sail, let us work it out. Together. Please—" His eyes begged her. "Don't run. I am not getting on any ship without you. And I don't want to have to hunt you down across Endor, as your father hunted down your mother. But you know I will if I have to." In his eyes, Maeglin saw the faintest shadow of that wild desperation that had been in her father Eöl's eyes, as he had gazed at his wife and his son before Turgon's throne.

She looked at him, her eyes growing soft. "Will you bring a poisoned spear?"

"For Thranduil. If I find you anywhere near him."

"You won't. I detest the man."

"Stop saying that. Need I keep reminding you that you ended up in bed with the last person you detested?"

"And marrying him." She walked up to him and put her hand on his neck, sliding her fingers up into his golden hair. He looked away. Shivered at the longing her touch still brought him.

"Whatever that is worth," he said bitterly. "Whatever that means to you."

She took his face in her hands, turned it to face her, and her piercing obsidian eyes gazed deep into his tormented dark blue ones.

"All right. I won't leave you."

That was all it took for hope to light up his face, for his anger and hurt to fade. She saw the surge of tender love in his blue eyes as they cleared and their colour brightened. All the infinite depths of his devotion to her were laid bare in those eyes. A devotion so unreserved and so pure that it always made her feel unworthy. Her heart ached.

"Ever?" he said softly.

"Ever."

He smiled radiantly and embraced her so tightly she winced, and he hurriedly loosened his hold. He had cracked her ribs only once, over the years, for he was almost always mindful of his strength.

"We are one and bound for always?"

"Always."

"Say it again."

She sighed, put her hands on his chest and pushed him away just enough so that she could look again into his eyes.

"I am yours. For always. Please do not make a big production of it."

With a tender smile of relief and joy, he leaned down to kiss her. Then stopped an inch away from her lips. He straightened and his eyes narrowed.

"Was he that good a kisser?"

"Oh, for crying out loud!" She pushed herself out of his arms. "He caught me off guard. Stop harping on it. You married a half-Moriquendë. Live with it."

"Will you just answer the question?"

"How would I know? I have only ever kissed two people, since Itarillë does not count."

"Answer it! Damn it!"

Maeglin looked away with a sigh of exasperation. In a very small, gruff voice, she finally muttered through her teeth, "You're better. At least to me."

"You're not just saying that?"

"No!" she snapped. But despite her scowl, her black eyes had a soft shimmer as they rested on him. As he reached out his hand to touch her face, she leaned her cheek against his palm and sighed, "Insufferable bastard."

Glorfindel smiled. He pulled her to himself again and held her close. "How much better?" he teased.

"Just shut up, and kiss me."

* * *

><p>They lay kissing lazily under the evergreen oak. Then, unexpectedly, she said, "Let us build that house in Oromë's forest."<p>

Her brief words brought hope. She was never one to speak lightly. Though his heart leaped with joy, he was quiet and cautious when he replied. "If you are sure you want it, not just that you think I do."

"Just let me be the one to tell the boys. When I am ready, I will."

At that moment, the heavens above broke at last and warm, large drops of rain began to fall on them. They both smiled.

"Shall we find shelter?" she asked.

"No," he laughed. "Let's enjoy it." He gave her another deep kiss and she wrapped herself around him.

And for that moment, the future did not matter and held no fears.

* * *

><p>Glorfindel climbed onto the flet where Thranduil sat, staring out into the sunset, drinking steadily. The golden elflord stretched himself out on a nearby couch, propping his head up with his hand. He gazed out west as well, and said nothing for a long while.<p>

When the sun had sunk behind the distant hills, and the first stars were lighting in a now-clear sky, Glorfindel said quietly, "You are thinking of her, aren't you?"

After what felt like an eternity, Thranduil replied, "Always."

"You know she is waiting for you."

Thranduil said nothing, but drank slowly from his goblet.

"With your father."

The sound of the wind in the treetops.

"And our mother."

The king did not react even to that. The stars marched slowly across the sky.

"Among the forests of matchless beauty there, I truly do believe one of them waits for a new king."

"And your faith may be misplaced."

The moon climbed up into the heavens, drifts of cloud moving across its face.

"And your son will be there."

Glorfindel rolled onto his front, and looked over at his brother.

"And if you will not get on a ship with a dwarf, brother. . . you are always welcome to board one with this _golodh_."

Glorfindel swung his feet off the couch and stood up. He crossed to the table where the decanter of wine stood, and refilled Thranduil's empty goblet. The eyes of the two brothers met for a moment.

"We sail early next autumn from Mithlond," the elflord added softly, as he set the decanter back on the table.

Then he disappeared down the ladder, silent and swift.

Thranduil held his goblet of wine, not drinking it, and gazed on out into the west.

* * *

><p>During the long journey back from Minas Tirith to Imladris, Elladan and Elrohir's sorrow for their sister and foster-brother was deep and visible, though both king and queen yet lived. The household surrounded them with companionship and silent sympathy.<p>

"Why did they not stay?" Maeglin asked Glorfindel. "Why not spend what remaining time they can with Arwen and Estel?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "Arwen did not wish it." His own eyes were grieved.

It was late spring when they arrived back in the valley. The preparations for departure quickened in pace. Maeglin only packed tools and items that were personal to her from the smithy, as did Camaen. Everything else, they would leave for the _edain_ of the valley.

Maeglin still had the dreams. But now, when Glorfindel rolled over to hold her, she let him. And took what comfort his light and warmth could give.

But something still disturbed her. Something she somehow did not want to ask her love.

Maeglin walked among the half-empty shelves of the library, where Erestor was sifting through books and trying to decide which to pack for the voyage to Aman. He looked up as she scanned the remaining books in the history section.

"Yes, my dear. How may I assist?"

At her reply, the councillor gazed at her strangely with his emerald eyes. Then he took a book from the middle of a pile on the floor and passed it to her wordlessly.

Maeglin went to a window seat, curled herself in a corner, and opened _The Fall of Gondolin_ to read. She found the place, and read the description of the ends of the four Lords who died in her dreams. Penlod. Rog. Duilin. Ecthelion. . . .

She was shaking before she finished, yet she could not set it down.

She looked up finally from her almost trance-like state to see Erestor standing by the window seat, his green eyes glittering with compassion. He took the open book away from her trembling hands, glanced at the pages she had been reading, and sat down at the window as well, shaking his head.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said, for she was pale and ashen. "Or several."

She mastered herself enough to say in a flat voice, "Well. It is an affecting read."

"Why must you read this now?" he said, waving the open book at her. "I imagine you must have carried all these deaths enough without putting yourself through the graphic descriptions."

She stared at the councillor. His parents were Gondolindrim, of the House of the Fountain. His family had been betrayed by her.

Seeing the blank look of shock on her face, Erestor added gently, "Lord Elrond told us before he sailed."

"Who is 'us'?"

"Well, the Lords Elladan and Elrohir. Myself. Lindir. Camaen. Lindawen. Lord Elrond told us while you and Glorfindel were in Lothlórien. Once he told us, everything we had wondered about you over the years made perfect sense." His tone was pleasant and matter-of-fact. "He said it was better if we did not let on we know. But I could not see you torment yourself like this today and keep silent." He quirked an eyebrow at her. "I can see that someone is not quite enamoured of the idea of sailing, eh?" He patted her hand sympathetically. "And understandably so." Erestor hardly ever smiled, but he did now. Brief and stiff as it was, it was an oddly reassuring smile. "But if it helps any, my dear girl, you will not be going there alone."

Then he closed the book, stood up, went back to the other end of the library, and slotted the book back into the middle of its pile.


	31. Chapter 31: Last Days in Imladris

"I have_ already_ thrown out an _enormous_ number of books," protested Erestor as they stood in the library. His green eyes flashed indignantly.

Glorfindel inspected a pile of books, glowering. "_Blowfly Propagation Patterns in the Swamps of Taur-im-Duinath _and _Toadstool Species of Southern Eriador_. Are you _serious?_"

Erestor raised an eyebrow. "That's the discards pile, you dolt. Credit me with some sense."

"What kind of system do you have in this mess? So _which_ books exactly are coming?"

Erestor gestured at twenty tall stacks of books and leather-bound archival material.

"Erestor, you have to at least _halve_ this. By all the Valar, do you want to sink the ship?"

"Each of these books presents valuable aspects of history and culture that deserve preservation."

Glorfindel picked up a weighty tome from one of the stacks. "_Memoirs of a scribe in the court of Gil-galad_. Why in Eä should we bring this one?"

"_That_ one has great attention to historical detail—"

Glorfindel gave a snort of derision. "If you want to hear about it, look the man up in Valinor, for Eru's sake, and invite him for tea. You don't need his _book!"_

"The insights and reflections are most acute and perspicacious—"

"In fact, you and I were both at the court of Gil-galad! If anyone wants acute and perspicacious insights, they could ask us, or Elrond, or even the king himself, for that matter."

"_You?_ Perspicacious?"

"Stop it, the two of you!" snapped a voice from the doorway.

They turned and saw Maeglin standing with her hands on her hips, her black eyes flashing with annoyance.

"Thranduil may not come. If he does not, we bring the books. If he does, and depending on how many of his people he brings with him, some of the books will have to go. There's no point quibbling until then," she said.

Glorfindel and Erestor looked at each other, blue and green eyes still sparking.

"That proud, stiff-necked Sinda will never sail," said the councillor.

"That proud Sinda has many reasons to sail," replied the seneschal.

"If he does not come, I get back the emerald pin I lost in the last wager."

"Done. If he comes, I dunk you in the fountain."

Maeglin sighed. "Are you elflings quite done? Let's go for a walk. It's a beautiful evening, and the sunset will be magnificent."

And because expectant _nísi_ must be humoured, they obediently complied.

"The sunsets will be even more magnificent in Aman, _melda_," said Glorfindel.

"The lady wants to see _this_ sunset in Ennor, Lord Glorfindel, and since she is carrying your child for you, indulge her." And Erestor walked down the stairs ahead of them.

Glorfindel stooped and gave Maeglin a deep and tender kiss before they descended the steps, one hand on the small of her back, the other resting on the swell of her belly beneath the skirts of her dress, feeling the movement of their third child within. Except for a brief period in her fourth month when she had driven him to near despair with a craving for Gondorian seafood, it had been a peaceful pregnancy. As she entered her eight month, she glowed with a luminous beauty almost as radiant as the golden elflord's.

Stepping out of the house, the three of them breathed in the fresh air of late summer. Save for the library, all the packing and preparations were done. Another two weeks remained to their departure.

Erestor walked up to where Lindir was playing his lute halfway up a tree, and the bard jumped lightly down to meet him, and the two went wandering off into the rose garden talking, and Lindir lightly strumming his instrument.

Two sets of twins were riding home from the hunt, having killed a brace of partridges, some quail, and a rabbit between them. With a wave, they rode past toward the stables and the kitchen.

"Dinner is going be late," said Glorfindel, as he and Maeglin strolled and gazed at the sky, which was a magical sea of crimson and molten gold.

She still had said nothing to their sons of her secret. And Glorfindel knew better than to push it. There was still time. A month and a month of long, ocean voyage to tell them. He gently tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear as they walked.

Glorfindel wondered at the ways of Eru in sending this child to them on their last day in Ithilien. The elflord had feared initially that the pregnancy would send Maeglin into an emotional tailspin that, together with her already dark dreams and moods, would cause her to again reject the journey to Aman. But it had bonded her to him more strongly, as they nurtured and gave their life force to the child together. And this child, as it grew, seemed to bring her peace, and the dark dreams were dispelled. Her countenance as the day of departure drew nearer was almost serene. Some nights she dreamt of fair green lands of forests, a brilliant beacon of light that shone from a high tower in a mountain pass under a star-filled sky, and a soaring mountain peak capped with eternal snows blinding in their whiteness. The land where their child would be born.

They walked close to the waterfall pools. Glorfindel plucked late-blooming white windflowers and braided them into her hair.

They heard two low fluting whistles behind them, and turned to see Elladan and Elrohir walking out to them over the lawn.

When, in early summer, all had sensed the passing of King Elessar, Elrond's twins had been stricken. It had taken all they had not to break their promise to their sister and ride out to find her. Their farewells had been said in early spring when they had departed Gondor. She had known how she wanted to be remembered by them.

The lingering shadow of sorrow was visible in the twins' eyes still. As the brothers drew closer to the waterfall pools, they all heard, above the rushing sound of white cascading water, a distant thread of song.

Four heads turned to look at the northern hills.

A tune without words carried on the breeze, echoing plaintively through the valley, haunting and sad as ever. A lament three ages old.

All too soon, the voice ceased.

"I wonder if he knows," said Elladan in a hushed voice, brushing away the tear that was sliding down his cheek.

"Yes, it is as though he has come to say goodbye," said Elrohir, his grey eyes moist.

The four of them had the same thought as they stood there still mesmerized by the silenced song.

"We should find him," murmured Glorfindel.

"Do you think he would come with us?" said Maeglin.

"Adar would have wanted it so," said Elrohir.

Elladan nodded. "We must try."

And a new light of purpose sparked in the twins' half-elven grey eyes.

In the eight days that followed, Glorfindel and both sets of twins—dark-haired and fair-haired—went out into the hills seeking the elusive singer, fanning out to cover more ground. Three more times they heard a fleeting thread of melody that seemed to tease and beckon to them. But of the singer, they saw nothing.

"If he is hiding from us, he is good at it," sighed Glorfindel one night. "Or perhaps he is almost faded, and spirit now more than flesh. . . I do not know."

Maeglin lay in his arms, her black eyes thoughtful, and said nothing. She recalled a time when she had lived with bitterness and sorrow in her heart, and had shunned the revelry of feasts and the society of the court, preferring the darkness of the mines, and the solitary work of the craftsman. Especially, she thought, she had shunned and felt repelled by the light and joy she saw in the Lord of the Golden Flower. Had he been hunting for her in the hills, of a certainty she would have fled.

On the ninth day, the platoon from Arnor the Imladhrim had been expecting arrived, forerunners of the garrison of the Northern Kingdom that would be stationed in the valley after the elves departed in five days. Elrond's twins and Erestor were occupied with administrative handover to the Arnorian lieutenant, Glorfindel with turning over the training rooms, equipment and all armaments to the junior officers. The rest of the household busied themselves handing over housekeeping and the kitchens and the great halls to the rest of the platoon. The search for the singer was abandoned.

Two nights before they were to sail, Glorfindel sat in bed reading a book. Maeglin knelt on the bed by him and looked at the title. "_Memoirs of a scribe in the court of Gil-galad?_ Seriously?"

"Shh. . . don't tell Erestor," grinned Glorfindel, his blue eyes sparkling. "It's good stuff. Wickedly funny too. If Erestor does not look this fellow up for tea in Valinor, I just might myself." He chuckled and read out a passage to her.

She laughed, then fell silent.

"You're thinking of the singer," he said, reading her mind as he did so often.

"I really wish he would come with us."

He shut his book and put his arms around her. "He does not want to be found. If indeed, he is still there. We tried, meldanya."

She sighed. He looked at her sad, solemn face, and with a mischievous glint in his eyes, gave her shoulder a push so that she fell onto the bed with a bounce. He tussled playfully with her until the bed was creaking so loudly and they were laughing so boisterously that Erestor banged on the wall between their chambers and shouted, "Keep it down, you two! Let decent people sleep."

In the early hours of the morning, Maeglin awoke in the darkness, a phrase of the singer's song in her head. Careful not to wake Glorfindel, she dressed in tunic, leggings, and a light grey cloak, and armed herself with bow and arrows and knives, just in case she met wargs. Though they were much diminished in size and strength now, they could still be perilous, and they did occasionally come into the valley.

She gazed down at Glorfindel, sleeping in the dark with his golden mane gleaming bright across his pillow, his strong shoulder and arm bare over the blanket, his aura shimmering on his skin. She felt such a flood of tender love that she almost kissed him. But she had learned her lesson by now. Sound sleeper though he was, her voice, her touch, had a knack of waking him unless he was in the extremes of exhaustion.

She went out into the corridors. Most of the household had moved their chambers to this wing. The Arnorians occupied the other side of the house for now. She opened one door, looked in on bright golden hair on another pillow, and straightened Aryo's blanket. In the room next to his, she absently picked up a pair of Arman's leggings from the floor, folded them and lay them across a chair, and looked on her son as he lay sleeping with his pale hair and one arm falling over the edge of the bed.

She walked past the rooms where all the elven household lay, lost in Lórien, then slipped out of a side door at the end of the corridor. She headed out to the northern slopes. One who for three ages had kept himself friendless and alone might still be there.

Under the pale light of the sickle moon and the stars that looked more distant now, she walked north and pondered what she planned to do. The child within her kicked, and she smiled and sent thoughts of love to it. She placed a shield of sleep and peace over her womb, so that what was to come would not disturb the infant.

What was to come? What indeed, was she thinking of doing? She had not wanted to overthink it, had not said a word to Glorfindel. Standing finally on the high slopes, in the black shadows cast by pine and fir around her, she hesitated and felt deeply uncomfortable. Foolish.

Well, at the worst only the owls and the night-hunting red foxes would hear her. She could think of nothing else. How could it hurt to try?

Then she heard that thin lilt of melody and shivered. She walked towards the song.

She took deep breaths, preparing herself, and let the sorrow of the song she heard take her deep into her _fëa_ to the wounds and scars of her life.

Finally, she joined in the song, picking up the melody and harmonizing with it. Her voice in this life was much like her mother's had been—strong, sweet, touched with huskiness. It carried clear and haunting in the cold air to blend with the singer's.

In the Quenya of the First Age, she sang her life. A white lady giving birth to a dark child in a dark forest. A boy coming to a hidden city, losing both parents within days. A prince's forbidden love and consuming lust. A captive's torments in Angband and his treachery. The coming of Morgoth's hordes upon the city. . .

The stars moved in their shining paths across the sky, and the moon sank westward as she told her tale. . . darkness calling out to darkness.

Then her skin prickled as she sang. _He was there._ A presence to her left, emanating sorrow and heaviness. She turned slowly.

The grey hooded figure stood in the distance, a shadow among shadows, beneath the black fir trees. He no longer sang. He stood tall and still. Listening.

Not a wraith, not faded. As solid and substantial as she.

Now she had to overcome sudden self-consciousness. Seeing the second greatest singer that ever drew breath, she fell dumb.

But he waited.

Drawing a deep breath and looking away, she sang on bravely to her conclusion. The ignoble final act in a traitor's tale. A city overrun by balrogs, orcs and serpents. A princess, a child prince, a struggle, a fight. A falling body that struck the mountain thrice. . .and then the dark. Six millenia in the Halls of Námo, and release in a new body and into a new world.

As her song closed, she feared that the figure would have vanished. When she looked back, he had drawn closer.

He stood tall and proud like the warrior-prince he was, but his face was still lost in the shadows of his hood. And he began to sing in return.

Soft and low, the beauty of his voice was beyond compare. It was the terrible beauty of the last song of a nightingale, impaled on a rose thorn, of the wind's lament over bleak desert sands and icy wastelands, of the rushing sigh of a waterfall plunging into black depthless chasms.

Maeglin saw a long trail of blood and death, a merciless sword cutting down life upon life; saw the flames as a Thousand Caves burned, reflected in dying elven eyes; saw innocents left to perish in dark woods; blood flowing in the Havens; brothers falling, one by one, till only one remained.

The silence after the lament ended hung heavy between them. She stood still in a trance, until he moved. He sat himself gracefully upon a rocky outcrop, and the spell seemed to lift. She moved forward and sat on a low, flat rock next to his. As she lowered her pregnant body carefully, she felt the hooded one gazing at her. If nothing else, she thought wryly, curiosity had drawn him.

"_Aiya_, kinsman Makalaurë Kanafinwë," she said, quietly. She had bared her naked soul to him, with all its scars and ugliness. Formality seemed pointless. "I am Lómiel who once was Lómion."

He pushed his hood back, revealing a pale face framed by dark hair and too thin. A face ravaged by long years of despair; the sculpted cheekbones too sharp; the silver-grey eyes full of grief and regret. The elven-light of his eyes, the light of his _hröa_ was extinguished. He might almost have passed for a mortal but for his pointed ears and the still-haunting elven beauty of his face. Such an aura of heaviness was around him, that she wondered that he had not faded long ago from such grief and passed into Námos' Halls. Perhaps it was spirit of Fëanáro, inextinguishable, burning on even in his gentlest son.

The kinslayer and the traitor looked at each other.

"Aiya, Lómiel-Lómion, daughter and son of my cousin Irissë," his voice was low, sorrowful, melodious, his eyes resting curiously on her face and her swollen belly. "This is an unheard-of strangeness. Is that Námo's practice then? To send _néri_ back as _nísi_?"

The shadow of a frown, perhaps thinking of his brothers.

"No," she hastened to reassure him. "My venno Laurëfindel says all others he has heard of have been rebodied as they were before. As he himself has been."

"Ah. The bright golden-haired one, whose light I have oft sensed from afar, and been hard-put to evade. The balrog slayer, I believe. Is he kin to my cousin Findaráto, as his hair and face suggest?"

"Findaráto's son. So yes, Laurëfindel and I are second cousins."

The singer tilted his head to one side and looked at her with unreadable pale-grey eyes. "Strange have been your fates in two lives. A golden love in each, and a cousin in each, and a hidden city linking both together. It is worthy of a song." No shadow of a smile touched his face, though his words suggested some dry amusement.

"Strange fates, yes, but I would skip the song." A small, grim smile lifted one corner of her mouth. "I have featured in too many songs, and wish them all unwritten and unsung. But I will say this, that in the end Eru and the Valar have dealt with me more mercifully than I deserved. I love and am loved. And lawfully this time," she added. His eye rested on the gold ring on her right forefinger. On his long slender hands clasped around his knee, he wore none.

"And you carry life," he said, with a touch of reverence. His eyes gazed into hers more sharply then, questioning. "You came seeking me with your song. And the others have disturbed me on these slopes. Why?"

Now it had come, she had not prepared what to say. She realized that deep in her heart she had not really believed she would find him where the others had failed.

"Our people's time in these lands has passed, kinsman Makalaurë. The last white ship awaits at the havens, and the time has come to sail over the sea." She paused. "Come with us. It is time to go home."

His eyes grew distant at her words, and he looked away.

"Home," he said. How he managed to infuse such depths of bitter mockery and sad wistfulness at the same time into that one word, she did not know. He made of it an alien word; something longed for, forever lost, eternally unattainable. "Is that what the lands west are to you?"

Part of her shivered. He had seen the vestiges of doubt in her soul.

"It may be hard for me, for I was born in Endor and have spent both lives here. But for you—Aman surely is home? You were born and lived long and blissful years there."

"The Makalaurë who once lived and loved in Aman is dead."

"There are those there who love you still and surely wait for you. Your amil Nerdanel. Your vessë Annalindë. And your brothers, when they are released by Námo—"

_"If."_ The mellifluous voice had a sharp edge. "_If_ Námo ever releases them. And no longer am I the son my Amil raised. No longer am I the _nér_ my wife bound herself to. The Makalaurë they knew died when the Oath was sworn. My presence will bring them both greater grief and shame and pain than ever my absence did."

She felt emanating from him a strong wave of self-loathing and hatred that almost buffeted her. She was dazed and speechless for a while.

"I think the greatest pain for one who loves is separation. How would you know that your wife cannot forgive you or that her love would have changed?"

"She would have the pain of being held by all as the wife of a kinslayer. If I stay here I cannot hurt her more than I have already done. And the further I keep myself from her, the better."

"The burden of being a kinslayer's wife has been hers since the day you left. There can be nothing worse than bearing that alone."

"Do you think any love could survive the long years, knowing what I have done? I dream sometimes. Of seeing love dead in her eyes." His voice was hollow. "And I have nothing to give her. The one who loved her died when the Oath was sworn and kindred slain. There is nothing of him left to give."

"If you do not go for your wife's sake, there would still be others there for you," said Maeglin desperately, feeling how weak, how ineffectual her words were. "Elrond, who is already there, shall always welcome you. It was for love of him that you first came to Imladris valley, was it not? He has never failed to speak of you kindly and with love. You have seen his twin sons seeking you this past week. And it is not Elrond's home alone that shall be open to you. Laurëfindel and I will always have place for you. You do not need to be alone. Join us. One can hide away from the judgement of the Eldar in the forests of Oromë, for the wilds of Aman are vast."

"Ah, so that is your plan. I doubt whether Oromë should welcome an oathswearer and kinslayer in his forests as much as he would welcome you and your warrior of Valinor. And I sent Elrond away long ago to be free from association with one such as I."

"He has no wish to be free of that association."

"And I have no wish to darken his life."

"If you would be a wanderer alone still, why not roam the lands of Aman? Forswear all our company if you will, but come. Vast are the lands, and you may lose yourself there. That is why I myself am willing to go. The mortal lands are no longer the place for our kind."

His eyes narrowed. "Do you think the Valar would allow a kinslayer to wander freely across their lands? I have greater freedom here, if it can be called that. For me. . . there is nothing in Aman now but the judgement of the Valar."

"May that judgement not be merciful, and all forgiven? The Valar know your regret."

His haunted eyes gazed into hers, and she felt herself pulled into a spinning vortex of slaughter and a thousand cries of death.

"Once, perhaps, I hoped," he whispered. "But no. . . it cannot be. Their blood cries forever to the heavens and dyes red the Sundering Sea. There is no forgiveness for such sin."

She shivered, and closed her eyes to break the spell of his silver gaze. "You are wrong," she said. "Five hundred thousand deaths were on me. And yet Eru gave me a new life in a new body. If that is not forgiveness, I do not know what is."

"We are not the same, child. You killed a Firstborn only when compelled by Sauron. Your sword is otherwise clean of Firstborn blood."

"But not my soul."

"A treachery wrenched from you by Morgoth's lieutenant in the bowels of the Dark Lord's stronghold, after you had been subjected to his choicest tortures? I see a mitigating factor in that. Sauron's hand was not on my throat when I swore the Oath, nor when I sliced open the innocent, nor when I snatched the silmarils from the Valar themselves."

"Eru looks not at deeds alone but the heart's condition. Your heart is full of remorse. And in all you did there was no hate. I hated much, and there was malice and lust and dark selfish desire in what I did. You were driven only by your Oath."

In the haunted weariness of his eyes, she saw a flicker of surprise at her persistence.

"There is a most important thing you have not thought of," he said in a level voice. "The Doom of the Noldor is upon me and the Curse of the Dispossessed. If you take me on your ship, and the Valar oppose my coming to Aman, you and all on that ship with you shall never find your way to the blessed shores. You take a great risk. And for what? Why is it so important to you that I go?"

"I do not know!" Maeglin replied in anguish. "Perhaps it is that your song has comforted and touched me in my own pain, and I feel kinship with you. Perhaps it is because for the Eldar to stay here in the mortal lands is to diminish and dwindle and fade, and I cannot bear that you should. Perhaps it is because I know something of guilt and regret, and cannot bear any shouldering an eternity of it. Perhaps it is because if a traitor such as I can receive mercy, I know anyone can."

The singer was silent. How useless those words spoken sounded to her own ears.

"You could have thrown yourself into the sea when you threw the silmaril," Maeglin said more calmly. "Yet you did not."

"Perhaps I was not as brave as Maitimo," he said softly.

"I do not think it had aught to do with bravery. It is self-hate so great you believe you deserve not even death. Is it the unforgiveness of others or the judgement of the Valar that bars your way home as much as your own unforgiveness and judgement of yourself? All curses Eru can cancel save those we lay upon ourselves, _tyenya_ Makalaurë. Six thousand years has been long enough. Punishment enough. Break your curse and come with us. Please. We do not wish to sail without you."

Another silence descended, filled only by the wind wailing through the stands of pine and fir. The sky towards the east was beginning to pale.

"Blessed are you whom Eru has forgiven. And blessed are you, who have found love and a new life after much guilt and grief. I envy you," said the kinslayer softly in his musical voice. "Your concern touches me, young kinswoman. But I shall not take my taint and curse upon your white ship." He rose to his feet, his darkness and sorrow gathering around him almost as tangibly as the cloak he wore. "Sail, and be blessed. I shall have comfort thinking of you safe in Oromë's woods, as I walk among mortal men." His hand reached down and touched her cheek, like the brush of a moth's wing. She had a brief glimpse of the thick, knotted burn scars disfiguring his palm. "There are two who wait for you there. I must be gone."

And suddenly, though she could have sworn she had not blinked, he had vanished. She stared into the space where he had been, feeling as bereft as though she had lost a brother.

"Emmë?" said two hushed voices in unison nearby.

She turned her head and saw them. Her two beautiful sons. They came out from the stand of pines where they had been concealed, and their faces were tear-stained. And she saw in their eyes that they knew everything.

She stared at them in speechless horror.

They came to their mother, and sat on either side of her on the rock, wrapping their arms around her in warm, comforting embrace as their father so often did.

"We saw you leaving the house—"

"We followed you—"

"We love you, Emmë—"

"We'll take care of you—"

And as Maeglin began to sob, her sons comforted her in the protective circle of their strong arms, their heads together, two golden and one black.

"Why did you not tell us sooner?" said Aryo, pressing his cheek against hers.

"I did not know how," she said.

"All that matters is we know now," said Arman, kissing her other cheek and hugging her tight.

And that was how Glorfindel found them, just before the first light of the sun broke over the hilltops. He stood before them, wordlessly. They looked up at him. Then the elflord came forward and pulled Maeglin up to her feet and into his arms.

Glorfindel looked into the eyes of his sons, and saw that they were strong and calm. He smiled at them. "Go back to the house for breakfast," he said. "We shall talk later. Amil will be fine. We will stay here for a while. No need to keep food for us."

Glorfindel walked with Maeglin to the ledge, not far away, where they had spent their first Midsummer night together almost two hundred years ago. It was a place they had often come to over the years, always finding it restful and blessed by happy memories. The sun spilled over the mountain tops into the valley as she told him about her encounter with Makalaurë. They sat down on the ledge, his arm around her shoulders pouring strength into her, her arm around his waist.

"It is his choice. You said all that could be said. Do not grieve."

"There may be no more ships."

"Who knows? He may yet find his peace in these mortal lands. And one day he may yet find his way to Aman. It may be Círdan's last journey, but if Legolas can build himself a ship, who else might not do so? Of all people, we should know what strange and wondrous things Eru can work."

"Or he may go to Námo," she said and fell silent. There had been a brief moment, just one moment, when her thoughts had gone to her knife. When she had considered that with one thrust into his heart she could release the singer from his wandering, and send him to the Halls of Námo for healing and restoration. As she had done once to another. She recoiled from the killer's impulse now with shame, her heart troubled, that she had thought of taking life even as she bore it in her womb.

Glorfindel sensed her dark thought and leaned down to kiss her.

"He is a warrior and a leader of warriors. He can take care of himself. He obviously has done so for six millennia."

She smiled wanly, and in her most maternal voice, channelling Idril, she sighed, "He was so thin and pale. He is not feeding himself well, that boy."

"Maeglin Lómion mothering a Fëanárion. That's rich," he laughed. "Great Itarillë imitation. She would be proud of you. You have come a long way, vesseya. A long, long way from when you were my prince." He gave her one last, lingering kiss, helped her to her feet, and they walked down the hill towards the house.

"Will you look at that!" said Glorfindel, looking over his shoulder as they reached the steps up to the great house.

In the golden light of the morning, his circlet and pale hair shining in the sunlight, Thranduil of the Greenwood was riding up the path to the great house on a silver-grey stallion, accompanied by only six of his guard on horseback. Erestor would be able to keep his archives, at least.

"It would appear that the fourth kinslaying has been averted," murmured Maeglin, as they went forward to welcome the king, imagining what would have happened if Thranduil had been made to share a ship with the second son of Fëanor.

Thranduil dismounted and gave them a nod as they greeted him with bows.

"Welcome to Imladris, Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Greenwood! Our eyes are gladdened to see you, and our hearts rejoice that you have come," said Glorfindel, beaming with such undisguised happiness to see his half-brother that Thranduil's mouth curved in a small smile in spite of himself.

"Lord Glorfindel, Lady Lómiel, well met. I offer my heartfelt congratulations," said Thranduil, eyeing Lómiel's belly. "May the stars shine on the birth."

Just then, Erestor emerged around the corner of the house onto the terrace with Lindir. He saw Thranduil's retinue at the foot of the steps, and came to an abrupt halt.

Glorfindel's eyes gleamed with triumph and he smiled evilly at Erestor.

The councillor blanched, turned, and fled back around the corner of the house.

Thranduil raised his eyebrows as Glorfindel swiftly scaled the wall of the terrace, vaulted over the railing, and went racing after the vanished councillor.

"How many times must we say to you: use the stairs?" called his wife after the golden elflord as he disappeared.

She turned back to see the amused blue eyes of the woodland king.

"Lindir shall show you your rooms for the night, King Thranduil, and I shall lead your men and horses to the stable," said Maeglin graciously, as Lindir ran down the great steps with a bright smile and bowed gracefully to the king.

In the distance, they heard a wail and a splash.


End file.
